


The Chronicle of Secondary Education

by MDJensen



Series: Teacher Boys AU [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Ace Athos, Ace Porthos, Fat Porthos, Modern AU, Multi, Seriously stop buying us mugs, Take Your Fandom to Work Day, Teacher AU, Teachers have so many mugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6803095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which d’Artagnan is just trying to survive his first year of teaching, Aramis and Porthos are shipped by the entire student body, and Athos is that one history teacher who wears sweaters from October to April.</p><p>For Take Your Fandom to Work Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Marking Period

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R00bs_Teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/gifts).



> For Take Your Fandom to Work Day, I hereby present... teacher boys! Yes, my friends, the blender level is low on this one. Basically all of the (teacher-related) experiences in this fic have happened to either me or a close teacher friend. On a related topic, if anybody wants me to explain any jargon, feel free to ask! I've tried to keep it to a minimum.
> 
> Also, a note: the boys are American in this one. It seemed to defeat the purpose of TYFtWD for me to have to research any other country's schooling system, so. There you are. It's okay if you still hear their canon accents, though... I tried to write them with American vernacular but, even though I'm American, I'm so used to writing them as British it's probably a bit muddled.
> 
> With many thanks to Azile_Teacup, who has kept me motivated throughout the writing of this :)

 

5:00am, and summer is over. Athos hauls himself out of bed and into the bathroom, and goes about his routine. When he gets back to the bedroom he has a text waiting. It’s from Aramis, to him and Porthos, and it’s nothing more than a picture of a fluffy kitten snuggled face-first in bed. 

 _Thanks_ , Athos replies. 

He’s nearly done his oatmeal and coffee (mug: Miranda Padilla, 2013) when Aramis texts again, asking if Porthos is awake. 

 _No_ , comes the reply, a few minutes later. Aramis sends a grinning sun, a party hat, and an apple.

Athos checks the time; it’s nearly 5:45. Although Porthos would not _prefer_ to be awake yet, he has the longest drive of all of them, so Athos certainly hopes he’s out of the shower by now at least.

It’s still too hot for a sweater, at least it will be in the building. Athos begrudgingly puts on a t-shirt instead, choosing the one signed on the back by all his students on the last day of school last year. For a few years now he’s only taught seniors, so none of these kids will be there. Still it’s a comforting reminder that, no matter what faces he will see in his room when classes start tomorrow, come June he’ll miss each and every one of them.

Well, 85% of them.

He’s on the road by 6:30, pulling into the parking lot at 6:38; his isn’t the first car, but there’s only four others. It takes three trips to unload all he’s bought. It’s been two months since he was in the building, but nothing much has changed; the floors are still a freckled sandy color, the lockers still a rust-hiding shade of red. His classroom is still an uneven white (so much for the promised re-paint).

But the building smells today the way it only smells on the first day: like itself, not like the humans who will inhabit it these next ten months. It’s hot and musty, and lemony from the custodians’ mops.

Athos has been at this long enough that one year tends to blend seamlessly with the next, long enough that all delusions of grandeur or influence have long since fled. Still he takes a moment to enjoy the oddly welcoming scent.

He works to arrange the desks and dust the bookshelves and windowsills, until outside in the hallway he sees the trickle of colleagues begin, and slowly swell. Before long his phone vibrates.

 _We’re in the caf_ , Aramis has texted. _Got us coffee_.

Athos wipes his face on the collar of his t-shirt, grabs his laptop bag, and heads for the cafeteria.

The halls are bustling now, though not as much as they will be tomorrow. Athos filters through the stream of colleagues, nodding to all, kissing the cheeks of a few he has genuinely missed.

Maybe half the staff have gathered in the cafeteria already. Athos realizes with a moment of surprise that it’s already nearly 8:00am; the faculty meeting begins at 8:15. Time flies, classroom cleaning.

He finds Aramis and Porthos not far from the front, where they have a good view of the PowerPoint crookedly projected on one wall. The three of them were just at the lake together two weeks ago. Still, seeing them _here_ has an oddly puerile, first-day-of-school effect, and he thinks, a bit emotionally, of how he’s missed them.

Aramis, as promised, has coffee. Athos sees that his is iced and accepts it gratefully, pressing the water-beaded side to one cheek before taking a long drink.

Porthos, who will be shit until at least halfway through his own (hot) coffee, blinks up at him and groans. “What’s the count?” he burbles.

“One-eighty-two,” Aramis supplies. “Wake-ups: one-eighty-one.”

It’s a show, a script; if everyone in the building were ranked in the order of how many shits they gave, Porthos would come in first and Aramis would be top-five. They do not actually count days until May.

Athos himself would rank-- well, in the upper half, definitely, but nearer the bottom; sixtieth percentile, maybe, or sixty-fifth. His countdown begins whenever spring break ends.

There are teachers who _do_ begin their countdown on the first day, but Athos avoids them; there are also teachers who insist they _never_ count down, but Athos avoids them too.

The room is arranged mostly by department, but not entirely. Athos has already greeted his fellow history teachers in the hallway-- Janet Wallace excepted, and hopefully enjoying the first real day of her retirement-- and most vehemently does not feel some kind of humanities turncoat for sitting with two STEM teachers. Well, mostly not.

“Not many new faces,” Aramis remarks, as he scans the room as well. “That’s good, I guess. So much smoother when we all know what’s going on.”

“The pull-out math teacher’s new, but she was at the middle school,” Porthos adds, stifling a yawn. “Met her at PD.”

“Oh yeah. The optional PD that you actually went to. How was it?”

Porthos shrugs. When the caffeine takes hold of his bloodstream he’ll come alive, and Athos is sure they’ll hear about the PD then. For now he keeps hunting out new faces, idly curious.

There’s a woman he doesn’t recognize sitting with the rest of the math department; this will be Porthos’ new special ed teacher, then. She’s youngish, but not overly-- 27 or 28 at the very least. There seems to be a new gym teacher too, and Athos remembers that Bob Pokorny retired last June as well. But this guy is in his forties.

There’s only one faculty member, in fact, who looks totally new to the profession: a very tall, very fidgety young man who’s loitering awkwardly at the back as though he can’t decide who to sit with. Although faculty-only days are always casual dress, somebody has neglected to inform him. He’s wearing a wine red dress shirt and tight grey trousers, with a black and grey striped tie, and Athos feels a little bad for him, if only because it’s barely 8:00am and he already has pit stains. 

Most of the veteran teachers are wearing sweatpants or workout clothes. Somebody should really take this kid aside, Athos thinks, and explain to him two very important things: what short sleeves are, and the related point that, had he wanted to work in a building with air conditioning, he should have interviewed with a different district.

Then there’s a noise from the microphone. Athos turns and smiles at the principal, who has tapped to get their attention but will now speak without any assistance, and still be heard clearly by those at the back.

“Good morning, everyone,” Treville calls, and receives a chorus of _good_ _morning_ ’s in turn. Never one to prattle on, he continues, “I hope you all had relaxing summers. You’re eager to work on your classrooms, I know, so let’s begin.”

The PowerPoint is nearly identical to last year’s-- which was nearly identical to the previous year’s. It would be an interesting experiment, Athos thinks, to see them all back to back, staring from 1999’s. This is his seventeenth First Day PowerPoint, and surely there have been changes along the way, even if he doesn’t note them from year to year. At the very least he’d be able to witness the evolution of slide transition technology.

There’s the general information about the school for the new teachers; also the phone extensions have changed, Treville notes, and Athos prepares himself for the minor chaos of this. Beyond that it’s the usual pep combined with the usual doom and gloom, all abridged to suit Treville’s taciturn style.

Athos smirks to himself a few times as he mentally ticks off squares on the “First Faculty Meeting of the Year Bingo” board that Don Bowden shared on Facebook.

 _Critical thinking_ \-- check.

 _Assessment_ \-- check.

 _Financial stats longer than one minute_ \-- check.

 _Room is so hot you might die_ \-- check.

 _Fun facts about the incoming freshmen that make you feel old_ \-- check. Big check. Not a single one of them will have been born in the last millennium, Athos realizes.

But Treville doesn’t keep them long, which they all appreciate. The district is a bit of a sinking ship that can’t be allowed to sink, but Treville is a good leader and a thankfully unpolitical principal, and he has the respect of his faculty.

Porthos is alive by the time the meeting ends. He and Aramis are planning, as they usually do, to collaborate on cleaning both of their classrooms. Athos doesn’t really understand the time advantage of this. Any benefit is surely outweighed by the amount of time they will lose to distracting each other, but it seems to make them happy. Athos prefers to set his room up alone. They’ll all see each other for lunch, though, of course-- he’s hoping he can talk them into Peruvian food-- besides which he’s sure they’ll wander in and out a few times, though their classrooms are in the junior wing.

Athos is about to mention Peruvian when Treville swings by. “Captain,” they greet him, and he smiles, overly fond of the nickname.

“Gentlemen. Good summer? Never long enough, I know. Athos, quick question. Is your mentoring paperwork still together from last year?”

Though Athos is looking at Treville, he feels Porthos and Aramis grin beside him. He is, apparently, a highly rated mentor teacher. Despite this he has never quite brought himself to enjoy the role, typically using up all his limited social energy on his students-- and his friends, of course.

“It is,” he replies.

“Good. I’ve got a mentee for you, then.” Treville looks over his shoulder and gestures to someone; it’s the pit-stained kid from before, Athos sees, and realizes that he must be Janet’s replacement.

He is very visibly fresh out of the college. Joy.

“This is Charles d’Artagnan,” Treville introduces, as the kid comes to stand at his side. “He’ll be taking over World History, and-- one section of US I, is that right?”

“Mm-hm,” Charles d’Artagnan agrees.

“This is Athos LaFere. He’s a damn fine history teacher and a damn fine teacher all around. He’s taught World and US I, though these past few years he’s been doing AP and electives with the upperclassmen.”

“Hi, um, it’s good to meet you, Mister LaFere,” d’Artagnan says, enthusiastically, reaching out to pump Athos’ hand. All else aside, he does have a good grip.

“And these are LaFere’s second and third halves,” Treville notes.

“Aramis d’Herblay,” Aramis says, holding his hand out. “Biology.”

“DuVallon. Porthos,” Porthos says, when his turn comes. “Pre-calc and calc.”

“Hi, it’s good to meet you all. Yeah, thanks for mentoring me. So, um, how long have you been teaching?”

It’s not his best moment, and not a moment he’ll be proud of later, but Athos just raises an eyebrow. “Ages.”

“Ignore him,” Aramis cuts in, thankfully before d’Artagnan can flee. “Thirty-eight is looming large and you make him feel old.”

“An’ he’s a _don’t smile ‘til Thanksgiving_ kind of teacher,” Porthos adds. “He warms up before long. Cries like a baby every graduation.”

“Right.” D’Artagnan still looks a little flustered. “Okay, so, today we just-- have to set up our classrooms, right?”

“Mm-hm,” Aramis agrees. “Have you found yours yet?”

“Yeah. I visited last week. I’m in, um, A-wing?”

“Freshmen,” Porthos supplies. “Makes sense, considerin’. You’ve had the grand tour, then?”

D’Artagnan shakes his head.

Aramis snorts. “The general rule is here is that they don’t bother with new teacher orientation if there’s less than five for the year. Come on. We’ll show you around. Athos? Are you going to go be grumpy in your classroom, or come with us?”

He’s still feeling pretty shitty about the _ages_ comment. “I’ll come.”

D’Artagnan looks unaccountably happy about that.

“Well, this is the caf,” Aramis begins, gesturing expansively, then proceeds to lead their group around the rest of the central area, pointing out the main office, Treville’s office, the faculty room, and the auditorium. Then they go down the junior wing. Aramis shows off his classroom, his lab, and Porthos’ classroom, then the junior/senior gymnasium; they return to the central area via the senior wing, and see Athos’ room.

“If you ever need us and can’t find us, we’re probably there,” Aramis notes. “Oh, faculty bathroom, important. It’s in the same place in every wing.” They head back towards the freshmen/sophomore side.

“Cool,” d’Artagnan murmurs. “Yeah. Thanks. So, like, any advice?”

Despite how utterly welcoming Aramis and Porthos have been, this question is still directed at Athos. Athos tries not to sigh.

“Set your Facebook to private and keep your phone on silent. Don’t eat from the caf. And buy some gel inserts.”

“Don’t drink too much water if you’re more than an hour away from prep or lunch,” Aramis warns.

“Don’t grade in red,” Porthos adds. “It’s more stressful, for everyone. Oh, and get some bay leaves, put ‘em in your desk and closets. They keep away roaches.”

D’Artagnan nods, absorbing all this, and seems a little startled when they reach his classroom.

“Let’s do phone numbers,” Aramis suggests, before they part ways. “You’re not supposed to have your phone out, but nobody really cares. If you need something, you can always text us.”

They all exchange numbers. Athos does not recognize d’Artagnan’s area code, but then again he is not one to commit numbers instantly to memory, such as, say, Porthos.

“Thanks again,” d’Artagnan babbles. “I’ll, like, see you all around, then?”

They promise that they will, then leave him be.

Safely back in Athos’ classroom, they recap and discuss the morning’s events. D’Artagnan’s arrival is, of course, the main topic.

“I’m-- a little worried they’ll eat him alive,” Porthos mourns. “Yeah? You think?”

“I’m more worried they’ll be wanting to eat something else,” Aramis snorts, with an obscene gesture to illustrate his point. “The boy is pretty, and the freshmen are thirsty.”

It’s true: d’Artagnan is very pretty, and Athos wonders for a moment if Aramis feels encroached upon. There’s only room for one long-haired, black-eyed, deadly-cheekboned, Latino (is d’Artagnan Latino?) teacher in this school, and Aramis has already filled the role. And the kid is _tall_ , too. If Aramis has any saving grace it’s that he’s 5’8” on a good day; meanwhile this _d’Artagnan_ is nearly as tall as Porthos.

There will be new graffiti in the locker rooms, soon.

Athos kicks the two of them out soon, and the rest of the day goes quickly. Aramis and Porthos consent to Peruvian food for lunch. Athos gets his classroom ship-shape, puts up his usual posters, covers the bulletin boards with butcher paper, makes some copies, and prints his name on the board. He finishes around 4:00pm and, with a text to the others, heads home.

*

5:00am, and Athos hasn’t slept well. He never does, on the night before the kids start. It isn’t that he’s nervous, not anymore, but still his brain is definitely moving double-time. He brews enough for two cups of coffee this morning (mug: Yosi Pimentel, 2005).

There’s no particular reason that he, Porthos, and Aramis wear green on the first day. They just always do. Athos selects a pair of khaki trousers and a mint green dress shirt, and decides to fuck it all and not wear a tie.

They assemble around 7:45am in Athos’ room, as always. Athos sits at his desk, Aramis in the student chair beside, and Porthos perched on the edge of a student desk in the last row, and it’s like the summer never happened. For a moment only the splashes of green say _first day_. (Aramis is wearing a forest green dress shirt and a grey necktie with black trees on it; Porthos is wearing black trousers, a white dress shirt, and a bright green bowtie.)

Then Porthos takes the bowtie off and refastens it, and it’s the first day again. Though he’s hardly new, Porthos always gets a little antsy right before meeting the kids, and Aramis smiles fondly as he fixes his collar repeatedly.

Athos wonders, quite suddenly, how d’Artagnan is holding up.

He doesn’t have to wonder long; he gets his answer a few minutes later, and the answer is _not well_. There’s a knock on the door. Then d’Artagnan barges in, looking pale and sweaty and really rather nauseous, and gapes at them all for a moment.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “I figured-- I’d just say good morning--”

“You look like shit,” Porthos informs him. “You all right?”

“Yeah. No, I’m fine. Just, like, a little nervous, I guess.”

Aramis chuckles, goes to d’Artagnan’s side, and swoops him into a gentle hug. D’Artagnan latches onto him, hugs back tightly. “You’ll be fine,” Aramis lulls. “You’ll be great.”

When Aramis lets go, d’Artagnan still looks dangerously close to tears-- but he no longer looks quite as close to dashing down the hallway and losing his breakfast in the faculty bathroom. 

“You said you’ve got lunch at 12:05, right?” Porthos prompts. “I do too. Four hours from now an’ you’ll be sittin’ down, tellin’ me about your first classes.” Now he goes over to d’Artagnan too, and pats him on the shoulder. “Breathe, all right? First day of your first year sucks, but it only happens once.”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan huffs. “Okay. Sorry, I know I interrupted.”

“It’s fine,” Aramis soothes. “We’ve all been there. Like Porthos said, it only happens once.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” D’Artagnan nods, a little too rapidly. “I’m gonna-- I think I’ll go back to my classroom. In case anybody’s early. I didn’t expect to have a homeroom. Not that I mind!”

Aramis and Porthos meet each other’s eyes, then Porthos turns and looks at Athos; he’s trying hard not to smile too widely.

“12:05,” he repeats. “You’re gonna be fine.”

*

D’Artagnan survives. At least Athos assumes as much, because he doesn’t see him again that day. He and Aramis are both sleepy and a little quiet at lunch. They miss Porthos, used to the previous year’s schedule in which they all had lunch together, but by last period Athos is too wired to go out for happy hour as Aramis suggests. Instead he goes home and drinks a bottle of wine on the couch.

He drinks too much. He knows that; planned on dealing with it when he turned thirty, but is now aiming for forty. It’s not a problem, or anything. Just a little disconcerting at times to realize how many shots of whiskey he needs to knock back now to get any sort of buzz at all.

His job is stressful, is all. It’s surely not the most stressful profession there is, but Athos suspects it’s top-ten-- and it’s certainly the one that everybody forgets about. Suddenly he’s worried for d’Artagnan again. He digs in the couch cushions for his phone and sends a cursory text, asking the kid about his day.

What he receives back is a veritable missive. As skittish and timid as he seemed this morning is as jubilant and eager as he seems now, and Athos gets a few paragraphs in a row detailing students that d’Artagnan already adores and the success of his various icebreaker games.

Athos wishes he had made this a group text. Aramis and Porthos should be seeing this too.

Determined to be friendlier, and feeling warm from the wine in any case, Athos engages with d’Artagnan for the next twenty or so minutes, prompting for more information and relating, when asked, his own first day.

At some point during this he remembers that he has actual, contractual obligations to the kid.

 _I understand that the first week is crazy_ , Athos writes. _Let’s meet next Monday morning to work out the mentoring schedule._

 _Okay!_ d’Artagnan replies, immediately. But then the conversation ends.

It’s nearly 9:00pm now, and Athos feels his eyes getting heavier; he shuffles to his bedroom, but sends one last text before he puts his phone on the charger.

To Porthos and Aramis: _he’s not a kid, he’s a puppy_.

In the morning he wakes up to three puppy pictures from Aramis, and typed-out laughter from Porthos.

*

The first week goes fairly quickly. Athos has taught each of his classes multiple times already, and the material is familiar and comfortable; likewise he recognizes some of the students from the halls, or from Porthos’ and Aramis’ debate team.

This is mostly what teaching is by now. He’s over the drama and the politics; has turned down Treville’s request that he get his admin cert so many times that the man finally stopped asking. Even the day-to-day stuff doesn’t faze Athos much anymore. He’s not sure if it’s some sort of Zen thing, or a fact of growing older-- or if maybe he’s mildly depressed. If he’s being honest with himself, that _is_ a possibility.

Friday afternoon rolls around nicely, and they assemble as usual in Athos’ room; Aramis begins at once to push for happy hour, but Porthos does not chime in with his typical enthusiasm. In fact, upon further examination, he looks a little pissed.

“Everything all right?” Athos prompts.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Just the honeymoon’s shorter than usual, this year.”

Athos frowns. The behavioral honeymoon is one of the best things about September: new to their teachers and still fresh from summer, the kids tend to behave pretty well for the first few weeks.

“What did they do?”

“Nothin’ terrible. Here,” Porthos says, reaching into his computer bag and passing over a torn-out sheet of notebook paper.

It’s hardly a flattering portrait. Porthos is shaped more than a blimp than a human, gigantic flabby belly bursting out from under his shirt. His eyes are pinpricks, mouth a slit. His bottom has been rendering poking out sideways though the rest is head on, and his hands are meaty blobs, holding a marker and a paper marked _F_. 

Porthos shrugs. “Not a bad likeness.”

“Which asshole drew that?”

“Angel. Friday afternoon boost to the self-esteem.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“What, for drawin’ me how I look?”

They’ve been friends for years, but Athos never quite knows how to react when Porthos mentions his weight. Aramis and Athos himself are much slimmer, it’s true. Aramis has a temperamental stomach-- the adventures of which he will expound upon to anyone-- and because of this he (mostly) eats quite modestly. Athos simply has never been one to put on weight. Since thirty-three or thirty-four he’s acquired a humble pooch to his lower belly that shows a little if his waistband is too tight. But besides that he’s just built slender.

But Porthos is fat (it’s Porthos himself who eventually convinced Athos to suck it up and use the F-word) and it’s a direct result of how much he loves food. And he does love food. And Athos and Aramis love how much he loves food, because it’s just part of loving him, but that doesn’t mean that Athos knows how to reply to statements like this. 

Aramis, on the other hand, just smiles. “You usually manage to keep your shirt buttoned, though. My chubby bunny,” he adds, fondly, as though this makes perfect sense. To Porthos, it seems to. He grins, a little helplessly, as Aramis plucks the drawing from his hands, balls it up, and tosses it into the trashcan. 

“They don’t dislike you,” Athos adds, quietly. “Just math. They’re nicer to humanities teachers.”

“Oh yeah? Anybody worked out _LaFairy_ yet?”

Athos pulls a face. “No. But I have every confidence that they will.”

Porthos cheers right up after that, and he and Aramis convince Athos to join them for happy hour. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to, really. Only he’s sleepy, out of social energy, and besides this sometimes feels like he is intruding on a date, even though Porthos and Aramis are decidedly not a couple.

Porthos _is_ , however, in love with Aramis. Aramis is oblivious-- at times Athos even thinks that Porthos might be oblivious, too-- but everybody else is well aware.

There’s always at least one candid of them in the yearbook. Last year it was a snapshot in the hallway, Aramis bridal-style in Porthos’ arms, his own arms flung up in a celebratory pose. The year before that it was them in full Christmas garb, antlers and all. The year before that it was Aramis passed out on Porthos’ shoulder, in a Dramamine-induced coma on the bus to DC for junior trip. This is Athos’ favorite. It’s clearly being taken over the back of the next bus seat; Aramis’ lips are parted slightly, hair coming out of its bun, cheek smushed against Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos is smirking at the camera, but his eyes are soft and fond. When the yearbook came out that year and they looked at it together, Aramis had leaned in and whispered, tenderly,

“I came really fucking close to throwing up in your lap that day.”

Whether or not Aramis is in love with Porthos, Athos does not know.

*

5:00am, on Monday of the first real week, and Athos moves through his routine a little faster than usual. He and d’Artagnan are supposed to meet at 7:00 to discuss their schedule.

He gets to school at 6:37, the first car in the lot this time, and makes one set of copies before heading to his classroom to meet d’Artagnan. At 6:55, the kid arrives.

Athos hasn’t seen more than a glimpse of him since last Tuesday, but he looks like everyone tends to look their first year: bright-eyed yet harried, like he probably has only been allowing himself five-minute showers in order to save more time for prep.

“Hey, Mister LaFere,” he greets, cheerily. “Is this, like, still an okay time?”

Athos nods, and gestures for him to sit; he takes Aramis’ customary chair, and pulls it a little forward.

“How was your first week?” Athos asks. He smiles, and d’Artagnan grins back.

“It was great! It was great but I’m, like, completely exhausted. The kids are great! I haven’t had, like, any problems with them.”

Perhaps now is a good time to tell him about the honeymoon, but Athos can’t bring himself to. Instead he listens for another few minutes, before pulling out his planner.

“Do you have your schedule?” he asks, and d’Artagnan provides it immediately. Athos lays it side-by-side with his own and thinks a moment about how best to handle this.

“In the past, I’ve visited my mentee’s classroom once a week,” Athos begins, “at least for the first marking period. I know prep time is precious, so I’ll only ask you to sit in on one of my classes every two or three weeks. We should meet briefly every week, though, in addition to my visits. Just to recap. Do you have any questions, about any of that?”

“Nope. Sounds good!”

“All right, then. The kids are best behaved on Wednesdays, I’d say. Shall I visit you then?”

“Yeah, sure!”

“My prep is second period. So we’ll say I’ll sit in on your World History class every Wednesday then. And if you ever want me to see any other specific lesson, just give me a few days’ notice and I’ll try to work it out.”

They plan out, too, that d’Artagnan will visit Athos alternate Friday afternoons, and on all Fridays they’ll meet briefly, to recap the week. D’Artagnan agrees, enthusiastically, to everything. He picks Athos mind for a few minutes while Athos gets some paperwork together, then while they’re still talking, Porthos wanders in.

“Mornin’, Athos,” he greets, blearily. “Mornin’, pup.”

It’s Athos’ first time hearing the nickname, but it must be an established fact between the two of them already, because d’Artagnan _beams_.

“Hey, Porthos!”

Porthos ruffles d’Artagnan’s hair as he goes to the last row of desks and perches atop one.

“Oh, um, Mister LaFere,” d’Artagnan begins, shuffling through an accordion folder. “I wanted to ask you-- should I like, pay you at the beginning of the year? Or the end? How does that work?”

Athos winces. This is, perhaps, the most awkward aspect of being a first year mentor: the fact that one’s mentee is expected to pay them-- and not even through something anonymous handled by the payroll, but by a literal, hefty check handed from one person to the other.

“You don’t,” Athos replies, shortly.

“I don’t what?”

“You don’t pay me,” Athos elaborates, hoping that d’Artagnan will politely acquiesce; of course, he does not.

“The contract says--”

“I know what the contract says. It’s awkward and unnecessary. I’m sixteen years above you on the pay scale; besides which, we are, hypothetically, a team here, though many forget this. I agreed to mentor you because it is in the best interest of our students for you to become a great teacher.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“My mentor didn’t take my money,” Porthos adds, joining the conversation smoothly. “So I made her lunch a lot.”

Lunch from Porthos, though, _means_ something-- means spinach quiche or pineapple fried rice or chicken risotto. D’Artagnan looks like he lives off of Hot Pockets.

“Really,” Athos says. “Mentor fees are embarrassing for everyone.”

“My mentor took my money!” Aramis adds, brightly, as he traipses in. His eyes fall on d’Artagnan, in his typical chair, but rather than comment he goes and leans up against Porthos.

“I’ll be a lot of work,” d’Artagnan says, looking down, not quite ready to let it drop. “I’m alt route. I know I’ve got a lot to learn.”

Oh. Suddenly his utter terror on the first day makes more sense; if he is still working towards his teaching cert, it’s possible he never even student taught.

“We were all alt route, ‘cept Athos,” Porthos assures him. “It’s not so bad. My degree’s in engineering. Did it through ROTC, so that was military time too. Then a nice cushy engineering job. But it didn’t feel enough like givin’ back, y’know? So I bit my lip, took the pay cut, an’ here I am. Aramis wandered a bit, too.”

“Two years of med school,” Aramis supplies. “Then my first week in a real hospital, a patient dies in my arms. So, as one does, I panicked and joined the seminary. Then I left the seminary and became a teacher.” He shrugs. 

Athos glances at d’Artagnan, wondering if he feels similarly dull right now. He himself went to school for history and education, graduated with degrees in history and education, and thanks to his September birthday was still twenty-one the first day he walked into a room full of seventeen-year-olds, supposedly an authority figure. That was sixteen years ago. He’s only a few years older than Porthos and Aramis, but he’s been at this particular grind a lot longer. In a way it’s all he knows. 

“What did you study?” Aramis asks d’Artagnan. “History?”

“Yeah, um, history and French lit,” d’Artagnan replies. “Minors in creative writing and anthropology.”

“That must’ve been a heavy course load.”

“I took five years.” D’Artagnan shrugs, not liking the implied compliment. It’s true, though, that all of this is making him a little more interesting in Athos’ eyes. He feels even duller, now.

“So are you, what, twenty-three, then?”

D’Artagnan nods.

“Well, I was twenty-five my first year. Porthos was twenty-seven. You’ve got a head start on both of us!”

D’Artagnan has been relaxing by degrees until, all at once, he looks calm. A few minutes later he heads to his classroom.

Aramis reclaims his chair, while Porthos frowns out the door, visibly meditating on things. “He definitely thought he was payin’ you to be his friend,” he notes, a little sadly.

“Well, then he feels better now,” Aramis replies.

“I hate mentoring,” Athos sighs, and the sigh isn’t even finished yet before Porthos calls him a liar.

*

On Wednesday, Athos observes d’Artagnan for the first time. He’s helping the kids analyze the differences between Middle Ages and Renaissance art in Europe, to a depth that is maybe just a little ambitious, but he’s holding their attention. It’s really too early to call this representative, though.

Wednesday is also Back to School Night, and classes end at 1:15pm so that the teachers do not overstay their contracted amount of hours when they return from 5:00pm to 7:00 that night. (As though they never work beyond contracted hours anyway-- _ha_.)

Athos and Aramis live close enough to drive home for the gap, but Porthos doesn’t really, and so they all tend to stick around. They get lunch, usually, then do some work in the building.

Athos’ suggestion of Peruvian is downvoted this time, and they agree on pizza, a reliable if slightly predictable option. They’re gathering their bags as Porthos suggests, “let’s invite the pup.”

Nobody has any objections-- besides the obvious, that d’Artagnan is weirdly intimidated by Athos, who doesn’t like to feel intimidating-- and Porthos texts him. A few minutes later he arrives, looking honored.

They head for the parking lot, to Aramis’ car. If Athos’ classroom is their natural point of congregation, then Aramis’ car is their natural mode of transportation.

Aramis sort of drives a minivan. Sort of, meaning he absolutely drives a minivan; bought it a few years ago when he and Porthos started the debate team, to ferry around their then-four students. They’re funded now, can afford to hire busses. The team’s grown to nearly two dozen students as well-- but Aramis still loves his minivan. They all do. Even though Porthos could technically drive-- Athos can’t, because Porthos doesn’t comfortably fit in the backseat and Aramis gets carsick there-- Aramis just always does.

Athos sits in the middle with d’Artagnan. Aramis drives them the short distance to the pizzeria (Rosa’s, the good one) and expertly parallel parks his mammoth vehicle. They find a table, waving at a few other teachers they see, and begin to pour over the menu.

Athos and Porthos get two slices each of the ricotta pizza, and Porthos gets a bowl of faggioli soup besides; Aramis gets a chicken parm sandwich. D’Artagnan gets one plain slice and a ginger ale. It’s the kind of thing Aramis would order on a bad stomach day, and Athos wonders if this is a normal meal for d’Artagnan or not.

Apparently it’s not, because Porthos raises an eyebrow, waits for the server to leave, then whispers, “nervous for tonight?”

D’Artagnan nods, going a little pale. Athos bites back a wince of sympathy; one of his clearest memories from his first year is of vomiting black coffee and onion bagel in the faculty bathroom ten minutes before Back to School Night. Nerves can be fucking stupid sometimes.

“Oh, Back to School Night,” Aramis groans. “Though I suppose not getting home until 7:30 would mean more if I had, you know, somebody waiting for me.” Porthos grunts in agreement.

None of them have anybody waiting for them at the moment, Aramis having broken up with his latest love interest over the summer. And all told, teaching is not a bad profession for a lifelong bachelor. Plenty of teachers have families, sure, but plenty are single into their thirties and forties-- or their whole lives. It makes Athos feel slightly less pathetic, at any rate.

“Oh. I guess I should text my roommates,” d’Artagnan mutters, and pulls out his phone to do so. “Not that they’d worry or anything. Just so they know.”

“You’ve got roommates?” Porthos asks.

“Yeah. Um, one of them works at a video game store and the other is, like, a flight attendant, so he’s not around much.”

These sound like descriptions of roommates, not friends, and Athos wonders at this for a moment. D’Artagnan doesn’t seem to have much in the way of friends. That doesn’t add up: he’s amenable, not overly shy or awkward, and he’s good-looking, which has got to help.

“You know them from school?”

“Mm? No, the internet. I-- I never mentioned? I’m from California. I went to school on the west coast. I don’t-- really know anybody here.”

“Then how’d you end up _here_?” Aramis snorts, gesturing around the less-than-glamorous pizzeria.

D’Artagnan shrugs. “I wanted to move. This was the first place that gave me an offer. Interviewed over Skype.”

“So you just up and moved?”

“I don’t-- I mean, like, I don’t really have any family, so-- I figured, change of scenery. I almost moved to France. Um, my parents were from France, and I’m, like, bilingual. But that’s a lot of paperwork and stuff, and I would’ve needed a different teaching cert, so-- yeah. Here I am.”

Athos looks at Aramis, who is looking at Porthos; then they both look at Athos. And this is the moment they adopt d’Artagnan.

“ _Ma mère était française, aussi_ ,” Athos says, quietly. D’Artagnan startles, then grins.

*

5:00am on Thursday arrives, and Athos is thirty-eight. He allows himself a tiny whimper, burrows back under the blankets, and stays there until Aramis texts five minutes later. It’s a party hat, a present, and a glass of wine.

 _Happy birthday, Athos!!!_ Porthos adds a few minutes later, followed by a notification from Facebook that tells him Porthos has just posted on his timeline as well. (Porthos is 90% of the reason he has a Facebook.)

He showers a little longer than usual, then looks at the smattering of birthday posts from other colleagues while he drinks his coffee (mug: Jasmin Vargas, 2005, a _Happy Birthday_ mug, though she gave it to him for Christmas). The weather has given him an unexpected gift, as well. The forecast is chilly, not going above sixty all day, so he puts on loose slacks and his favorite sweater, feeling cozy and marginally more cheerful.

He’s grading at his desk when the door bangs open. Aramis kisses him loudly on the tip of his nose; Porthos hugs him, then sets before him a Tupperware of something which smells eggy and bacony and divine. He foists a gift bag at him too. It ends up containing a Smart Board remote and a box of expensive-looking truffles. Aramis’ gift is in his car, which must mean it’s alcohol.

Athos accepts a plastic fork and eats his second breakfast, which tastes even better than it smells. He’s still eating when d’Artagnan wanders in.

“Hey, everyone. Oh wow, Porthos, you’re catering breakfasts now?”

Porthos cackles. “He didn’t mention it, did he? We should’ve thought to. It’s Athos birthday!”

“Oh wow!” d’Artagnan enthuses. “Happy birthday, Mister LaFere! Um, I’m sorry I didn’t know!”

“They’re a good deal less exciting once the first number is a three,” Athos replies, with a shrug. “Not sure what I’ll do once it’s a four. Take a sick day and enough Ambien to sleep through it all, probably.”

D’Artagnan opens his mouth, but closes it again before saying anything. Porthos hops off the desk, comes around to Athos’ side, and hugs him again, tighter this time. “Eat your breakfast,” he scolds. “Senior discount of free.”

Once he’s been down to the office to check his mailbox, everybody who is going to remember has already wished him a happy birthday, and the rest of the day mostly proceeds as usual. At lunch Aramis gives him a Tupperware of dark chocolate pistachio cake, courtesy of Porthos. But everything else is normal-- until the end of last period, at least, when a knock interrupts his lecture on new nationalism.

Athos isn’t quite sure what happens next. Truth be told the noise is a bit overwhelming, especially when the class joins in, and when he comes to his sense a minute later, there are three sets of arms hugging him from various directions.

“Maria!” he cries. “Brianna-- Madison!”

“Hey, Mister LaFere,” they chorus, then: “happy birthday!”

“He didn’t tell us!” one of his current students shouts.

Madison lets go, but Maria and Brianna keep hugging him-- which is good, because he feels a little lightheaded. “He’s not gonna tell you, so you’ve gotta remember!” Madison shouts to the class. “Mister LaFere is the best teacher ever, and you guys have to be really nice to him!”

The class finds this all a little hokey-- until it’s revealed that the girls have brought munchkins for all of them. Then they sit, happy for the snack and the distraction. Before long Athos collapses into his desk chair, eating his doughnut (he’s received a full-sized one) and listening happily to his former students telling him about their first month in college.

There are districts where college is pretty much a guarantee, but this isn’t one of them. Athos is overjoyed to hear how well they’re all doing, and feels himself blush a little when Brianna announces that she’s thinking about majoring in history. Then they produce a box that he somehow hadn’t noticed before. The whole room watches as he opens it carefully to find a blue and brown striped sweater, just the kind he’d have bought himself; then he blushes the rest of the way.

The girls don’t stay long. Around 2:50 they depart with final hugs, and waves to the current students, and Athos sits back in his chair, feeling overjoyed and overwhelmed and more than a little verklempt. Theodore Roosevelt seems abstract and unnecessary, for the moment. He gives the kids their homework assignment, and allows them the last ten minutes to start in on it.

The next day, Athos wears his new sweater, and d’Artagnan visits on AP US II. He still sits in a desk like a student, slouching naturally into its planes; without the shiny belt and shoes, the tie, and the lanyard around his neck, he could blend into the class quite easily. He even seems to be following the lecture. This is not the point, of course; he’s not there to learn about early 20th century progressivism, but to learn how to _teach_ about it. It’s endearing nevertheless.

That afternoon they have their first Friday meeting; Athos suggests some strategies that d’Artagnan might consider, and d’Artagnan asks twenty minutes’ worth of questions about lesson planning and pacing. Then he heads home, and Athos goes to happy hour with Porthos and Aramis.

It’s a pretty good week, all things considered.

*

The second week of October is warm, and Athos begrudgingly goes back to wearing dress shirts for a while. Because of his love for sweaters, many assume he’s always cold, but that isn’t true. He just really loves sweaters, and has long since gotten over his fear of accidentally wearing an ugly one. But he overheats, like anyone else, and it’s back in the seventies now.

He’s even sweating a little in his classroom, grading quizzes on a Tuesday morning, when he hears his door open.

“Hey.”

One word from Porthos is all it takes for Athos’ head to shoot up, already pushing back from his desk. “Porthos, what’s wrong?”

Porthos is crying, making no attempt to hide it; tears are steaming freely down his cheeks. 

“Um. A girl I taught, a student from a couple of years ago, she, uh, passed away this weekend.”

“Oh-- oh, Porthos.” Athos pulls him into a tight hug, feels Porthos hug him back, sniffling quietly. “Who? What happened?”

“Amber Williams,” Porthos sighs. “I don’t think you ever had her. She was sick. She was sick when I taught her. Knew it could happen. Just-- she was _nineteen_.” 

Athos rubs his back, not about to let go until Porthos lets go himself. “Are you going to go home?”

“Nah. No. What am I gonna do, sit around an’ think about it?” He breathes in and out, massively, and finally pulls away. 

Aramis rushes in then. Porthos takes one look at him and breaks down all over again, and Aramis runs at him and envelopes him in his arms. “I know, _querido_ ,” he whispers. “I know.”

Aramis sounds badly shaken himself, and Athos puts his hand on Aramis’ elbow. “You taught her too?”

Aramis nods against Porthos’ shoulder. “She was on the debate team. I know, I know, baby, it fucking-- I know.”

Porthos is weeping helplessly into Aramis’ neck; Athos stands at their side with a hand on each of their backs.

Then the door flings open again. Most of the debate team pours in, and Porthos and Aramis pull apart.

“Guys--” Porthos begins. He gets out that single word only before two of the kids hug him from either side, and he covers his face with one arm, hugging one of the kids with the other, and sobs silently.

Every student there scrambles to hug Porthos. He lowers his arm from his face so he can use both to gather them all to him, two concentric circles of kids around a Porthos midpoint, and everybody just stays that way a while. 

Aramis comes over next to Athos. He’s trembling, pretty hard, and Athos takes one look at him and pulls him in for a hug of their own. The kids notice quickly. Half of them break away and come surround Aramis, who lets them, but keeps his face pressed to the crook of Athos’ neck. 

Then Porthos wades through the sea of kids. Athos looks up in time to see him wrapping his arms around them both, and they each put an arm around him, hugging as three, Aramis’ face in Athos’ shoulder and Athos’ face in Porthos’ shoulder and Porthos’ face in Athos’ hair.

It’s a long time before they pull away. Then the first bell rings. Porthos and Aramis extricate themselves, both wiping their eyes, and set about the task of hugging each student individually before shipping them off to homeroom. Vanessa, who’s in Athos’ homeroom, collapses in her seat. “Nessie,” Athos calls, quietly, and the girl startles, looks around, and realizes at last that she has none of her books. She gets up to go to her locker, passing by Athos on the way; she glances at him a moment, a little shyly, but that’s all the cue he needs to pull her in for another hug before she scurries off to her locker. 

Other kids are filing in. They hush up at once, the way students do when they see something’s going on, but Porthos and Aramis just share one last nod with each other, and Athos, before jogging off to greet their own homeroom classes. 

The mood in the school is bleak. Treville says a few words about Amber during morning announcements, then one of the counselors gets on the mic to say that she and the others will take walk-ins all day. Plenty of the juniors and seniors remember Amber. Athos scraps his lesson plans for the day and gives the kids independent work time on their essays, saying nothing when two or three in every class elect to stare off into space instead.

That afternoon Porthos leaves at 3:15, which is far from his usual style. Athos is sitting alone in his classroom when d’Artagnan comes in around 4:00.

“Hey, Mister LaFere.”

All day he’s been feeling a strange combination of sadness and existentialism, and the unbearable desire to be kind. “You don’t have to call me that, you know,” he says, gently. “Athos is fine, or LaFere if you prefer.”

“Oh. Okay.” D’Artagnan doesn’t smile though. “Hey, did you teach the girl who, um, passed away?”

“No. But Porthos and Aramis both did.”

“Oh, wow,” d’Artagnan says, and hugs himself a little.

The wake is Friday. Porthos is remarkably composed, speaking warmly to Amber’s parents, consoling the students and former students he encounters. Porthos is always everyone’s rock.

But he’s also got the biggest, gentlest heart that Athos has ever known, and when they get back to the car he practically collapses into the passenger’s seat. As the car hums to life, he leans back and closes his eyes. Athos perches on the edge of the bench seat behind him, keeping a hand on his shoulder, as Aramis drives them back to Porthos’ apartment. 

Once he’s in the door, Porthos glances around like he doesn’t know what to do next. Aramis takes him by the hand and leads him into his bedroom, Athos trailing a few steps behind them.

Aramis takes off Porthos’ jacket. Then he undoes his bow tie, unbuttons his buttons, and slips his shirt off one arm at a time; last he reaches down to do Porthos’ belt and trousers, but Porthos pulls a face and does this himself. After, Porthos stands in his undershirt and boxers, looking grey. Athos goes into the kitchen to make them all coffee, but when he brings it back Porthos is curled up on his bed with his eyes closed, Aramis spooning him and stroking his arm. Athos leaves them be. He hunkers down on Porthos’ couch, with every intention of reading one of Porthos’ books; instead he ends up playing escape room games on his phone, grateful to focus on something inconsequential.

Aramis and Porthos emerge a few hours later. Porthos looks a little better by now--he’s clearly slept, and changed into jeans and a t-shirt-- but Aramis has still got him firmly by one hand.

“Lyin’ there thinkin’ about it’s not what I need to do,” Porthos reflects, quietly. “Who wants to come with me to the store? I’m feelin’ like pasta. With chicken meatballs.”

Though Porthos is feeling better, Aramis still drives them to the store. Porthos marches the aisles, buying onions and garlic and tomatoes, panko and orecchiette and ground chicken, heavy cream and mozzarella and parmesan. 

When they get back, Athos and Aramis sit at the table and watch. Even today, Porthos cooks like he teaches, with animation and passion, and otherwise boring things like derivatives and cracking eggs become sort of hypnotic under his influence.

After dinner, Athos hugs Porthos tightly and heads home. He’s fairly sure Aramis stays.

*

Sweater weather returns, and suddenly it’s Halloween. The faculty theme is pirates. Porthos wears ratty clothes, a bandana, a big hoop earring in his pierced ear, with a scar painted over one eye; Aramis wears a billowing white shirt, tight black pants, and an eyepatch, with a parrot Beanie Baby balanced on his shoulder. D’Artagnan wears a _Pirates of the Caribbean_ t-shirt.

Athos ‘forgets’, and ends up with Porthos lending him the bandana and Aramis lending him the parrot. It’s good to see Porthos smiling again, as he wrangles the fabric onto Athos’ head. A few weeks have passed since Amber’s death, and he seems back to normal now, though he’s taken her wallet-size down from his massive bulletin board of senior portraits and given it a place of honor on his desk instead.

Halloween is a cheery day altogether. Treville always takes his role very seriously, whatever it might be, and pirate captain fits him perfectly. Besides this, it marks the beginning of the holiday slipstream. The honeymoon is over and behavior has taken its usual turn for the worst, but November means Veterans Day weekend, followed rapidly by Thanksgiving, then Christmas break. The promise of a week and half off, though nearly two months away, is hugely motivating.

D’Artagnan is feeling the behavioral shift more than any of the rest of them, being new. He’s visibly exhausted, no longer just a little bleary-eyed, and he catches two colds back-to-back in the first half of November.

Then, one Monday morning, he comes in looking _terrible_. Aramis jumps to his feet as soon as he enters the room.

Aramis is the kind of teacher who genuinely means it when he refers to his _hundred and twenty children_. His students are his kids. _Everyone_ is kind of Aramis’ kid, even people who are older than he is, which is why he spends at least one lunch period a month lending his shoulder to be cried on, and why he’s the kind of teacher who gets Christmas cards from alumni now out of college.

D’Artagnan melts into this paternal aura. He’s feeling really shitty, Athos can tell; his upper lip is beaded with sweat and his knees look kind of wobbly.

Aramis presses the back of his hand to d’Artagnan’s forehead, then the crook of his neck, then his forehead again. “You’re warm,” he declares. “Go have the nurse take your temperature.”

D’Artagnan hesitates.

“No kids yet. She doesn’t mind; she’s done it for me. Go.”

It seems he doesn’t have the energy to protest any further, because d’Artagnan nods and shuffles out the door.

“Fever?” Athos prompts, when he returns. Aramis and Porthos have gone to their homerooms.

D’Artagnan nods. “It’s, like, low, but--”

“Mm?”

“I’m kind of nauseous,” d’Artagnan admits. “Since last night.”

“Go home.”

“But--”

“Go,” Athos repeats. “Home.”

“I’m already here!”

“Go to Treville and tell him that you didn’t want to call out, you tried to make it, but you can’t.”

“Mister Treville,” d’Artagnan rehearses, visibly preparing himself, “I didn’t want to call out but, um, I’m honestly feeling really sick--”

“The nurse took your temperature--”

“The nurse took my temperature and it’s a hundred-point-nine--”

Athos sighs. “D’Artagnan, that’s not _low_. And you don’t owe him specifics. You get sick days. Take one.”

D’Artagnan covers his face with one hand, lets his head sink against it, and stays there a minute. “Okay,” he consents. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Athos thinks about beginning a preemptive argument for a second sick day, but decides against it.

His phone vibrates in the middle of first period. He finishes up the PowerPoint and gets the kids on their first activity before sneaking to the back of the classroom and checking it under his desk. It’s a text from d’Artagnan.

 _good call_ , the message reads. _puked in the parking lot...._

 _Here?_ Athos messages back.

_no, omg… at my apt. sleeping forever ttyl._

Athos sighs.

“D’Artagnan made it home safe,” he reports to Aramis, at lunch. “If barely. Got sick in his parking lot, he said.”

Aramis wrinkles his nose. “He’s got that stomach thing? It’s going around.”

There is always, according to Aramis, a _stomach thing_ going around. _Always_. It’s one of the man’s favorite, most fatalistic catchphrases, and it never fails to make Athos feel a momentary jolt of anticipatory queasiness. Aramis has two years of med school under his belt, for godsake. Shouldn’t he be able to talk about disease in a tone that’s a little more clinical, a little less voyeuristic?

Athos just shrugs. Aramis pulls out his phone and sends Porthos an update.

D’Artagnan’s out two days, and still looks a little worse for wear when he gets back Wednesday, though he swears his fever broke Tuesday around lunchtime. “That’s almost twenty-four hours,” he notes, when Aramis glares at him.

Athos takes pity on him and does not observe his class that day; his observations don’t carry any weight, but the kid does not need the added stress. He does, though, catch him before they leave for the day.

“Not tonight,” Athos begins, “but tomorrow, or Friday, when you’re feeling better: I ought to show you how to do report card comments and finalize your grades. The marking period ends next Tuesday.”

“Oh right,” d’Artagnan mumbles, still sounding awful. “Report cards. Maybe we can talk about it when we meet Friday?”

Athos agrees, and fights back the urge to ruffle d’Artagnan’s hair as he turns to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ma mère était française, aussi._ \- My mother was French, too.


	2. Second Marking Period

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been doing so well with trigger warnings lately, which I know is something I need to be better about. Please please please, readers, let me know if there is anything specific you'd like to see tagged. In this chapters, tw's for alcohol use, minor contagious illness, reference to panic attacks but none depicted.

Athos’ alarm goes off at 5:15am, and he lets himself roll around for a few minutes before getting out of bed. The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas go pretty quickly, but sometimes not quickly enough. At least it’s sweater weather for good now, he thinks, as he selects a thick, comfy rust-colored one. He’s safe until March, at the least.

He doesn’t get to school until 7:07, and when he sees Porthos’ car already in the parking lot, he goes to Porthos’ room instead of his own. It doesn’t happen often, that Porthos beats him in, but it does happen sometimes.

D’Artagnan is sitting beside Porthos’ desk, backwards in a chair, slumped heavily over the backrest. Porthos is making an answer key in green pen. As Athos watches he pauses his scribbling, punches a few buttons on his calculator, then scratches d’Artagnan’s back before jotting the answer down. D’Artagnan rolls his head a little. Athos pushes the door open in time to hear him groan, then they both look up in greeting. 

“Hey, Athos,” they both call.

Athos frowns at d’Artagnan’s rasp. “Alive, d’Artagnan?” he prompts. The kid’s looked peaky since the stomach flu he had three weeks ago, and Athos thinks of Aramis, who caught mono his first year. But d’Artagnan nods.

“Just kind of worn out, I think. Sorry.”

Porthos stands and goes to d’Artagnan’s side, pulls his head against his hip. D’Artagnan sighs and buries his face in Porthos’ squishy stomach, getting his back scratched again for the effort. It’s clearer every day that they’ve acquired a puppy. Not a first year, not an apprentice teacher, not a fourth friend in their clan of three. A puppy. 

“You don’t have to be sorry for that,” Athos soothes. “We understand.”

D’Artagnan nods again, then pulls away and lets Porthos return to his grading. In recent weeks he’s seemed much more at ease with them all, Athos included, but still Athos does not pat his back as he goes to sit. He thinks about it, though.

They’re quiet for a few minutes, Porthos grading and Athos reading a novel he’s considering for one of his electives. Then d’Artagnan grunts and pushes to his feet. “Sorry. I know I’m just kind of sitting here. I’m gonna go clean my classroom a little. I finished my copies for the whole week last Friday, but that’s no excuse for being lazy.”

Well, maybe he’s still a little intimidated-- trying to prove himself at least.

Always trying to prove himself.

On Wednesday Athos watches d’Artagnan teach a lesson on the Columbian Exchange; he’s devised a somewhat overcomplicated activity for simulating it between opposite sides of the classroom, using plastic figures of plants and animals. It’s one of those lessons that should, by rights, go well-- but instead ends up going terribly.

D’Artagnan loses the attention of half the class during the initial instructions, and all his attempts at pulling the daydreamers back in through cold-calls wind up dead ends. Somebody’s cell phone goes off, and everybody scrambles to make sure it isn’t theirs. At least three kids ignore that they’ve been assigned to the Americas side, meaning the whole simulation is off-balance, and d’Artagnan’s attempt to introduce the serious topic of infectious disease is met with jokes about syphilis. Then somebody makes a plastic cow hump a plastic chicken.

By the time the period is over d’Artagnan looks like he’s run a marathon in July; symmetric sweat stains blot his shirt at the armpits, neck, and lower back, and he’s pulled his hair into a ponytail with a green rubber band. He has a full-on stammering fit trying to recap the importance of the lesson. Then the bell rings and the kids leave without attempting to clean up in the slightest.

Athos helps him retrieve the figurines and return them to their bin. D’Artagnan keeps his gaze to the floor as they work, seeming wholly unable to look Athos in the eye. When there’s a minute left to the next bell, Athos knows he’s got to get to his own class.

Finally d’Artagnan lifts his head up, and regards his door with unbridled despair. “Activities usually go better the second time around,” he notes, feigning hope badly; Athos agrees, and pats him on the back as he leaves.

*

Bad lessons happen. Athos doesn’t think all too much of it until Porthos texts him to say d’Artagnan didn’t come to lunch, with the strong implication that he is far too thin to miss meals in such a way.

_Gonna cook for him_ , Porthos decides. Later that night he texts Athos a picture of stuffed shells garnished with pesto.

But d’Artagnan skips lunch on Thursday too. Porthos reports later that he’d brought the shells to his classroom and found him desperately rewriting the afternoon’s plans, based on the failures of the morning.

Reflection is good practice, Athos tries to think. But actually he’s kind of worried.

On Friday Aramis returns from two days out for pink eye (the things the man can catch are astounding, really-- probably for the best he isn’t a doctor). Athos flops into the chair across from him at lunch.

“D’Artagnan looks terrible,” Aramis notes, without preamble. “And that’s coming from a man who’s had green eye goop since Tuesday-- sorry!” he adds, laughing, as Athos grimaces and puts down his sandwich. “No, but really,” he continues, “have you talked to him? Or would you like me to?”

Aramis means no offense, of course, but suddenly Athos feels a little protective.

“I’ll talk to him today,” he replies, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s the sprint to Christmas-- you know how it goes.”

But d’Artagnan insists that everything is all right. It’s a lie, of course, but Athos isn’t quite sure how to call him on it, and instead agrees to help him go over his plans for the next unit.

They’re a bit of a mess, truth be told. The best education programs in the world cannot actually simulate what it’s like to be a teacher, but at least they can drill in some kind of lesson plan organization. D’Artagnan plans lessons like a student, not a teacher. He thinks of his own pre-existing interest, not how to foster somebody else’s, and his goals are largely along the lines of _show the kids that history is cool_.

It’s an easy mistake to make. Athos has made it himself, many times, and feels sure he can help to lead d’Artagnan away from it-- until it becomes clear that d’Artagnan really doesn’t have the heart for it right now. Eventually Athos realizes he’s stopped working.

He’s very quiet about it, and sitting with one’s head down is after all sort of a classic teacher pose. So it takes Athos a minute to notice what’s going on. Once he has, though, he fetches the box of tissues from his desk and sets it in front of d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan takes one and wipes his eyes. Then he takes another, blows his nose, and pushes to his feet with a quiet hiss. He shuffles to the trash can by the door.

Athos does not stare, but neither does he pretend distraction, as d’Artagnan throws the tissues away and then stays standing there, taking deep, careful breaths. Eventually he saunters back to the chair.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Dunno-- sorry. Um, where were we?”

Athos reaches over and closes the TE with a gentle _thunk_. “We’re done for the night.”

If he’s expecting a fight, he doesn’t get one. D’Artagnan hesitates a moment, then leans forward over the desk, rubbing his temples. “‘ve got _such_ a fucking headache,” he moans.

“Go home.”

D’Artagnan presses his fingers to his eyes, and breathes out shakily. Then he stands to go.

Athos grabs d’Artagnan’s bag before he can heave the strap over his shoulder. “Leave it,” he orders.

But this is where d’Artagnan decides to protest, however weakly. “‘ve got quizzes in there.”

“When did they take them?”

“Today.”

“They don’t need them back Monday. No-- they don’t,” he repeats, as d’Artagnan opens his mouth to argue. “And you need the weekend off.”

“Okay,” he mumbles instead, sounding sleepy and defeated. “I, um. I’ll go home, then.”

But he doesn’t move.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos says, patiently. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Mm. Nah. I’m all right. Just tired.”

“Are you sure?”

D’Artagnan blinks. “Yeah. Just. This just-- isn’t what I thought it would be like. It’s all, like, paperwork and google docs and sending kids to the office, and boys pretending to orgasm in the back row.”

“What did you think it would be like?”

“I dunno. Teaching?” D’Artagnan shrugs his not-insubstantial shoulders, then seems to sink in on himself as they drop back down.

Athos snorts. “Teaching? You think teachers teach? You’re young. You’ll learn.”

“‘sokay. ‘m not very good at the teaching part anyway.”

Now Athos sighs. He never could teach the younger kids for this precise reason: he cannot handle raw emotion. In this aspect d’Artagnan is more six than he is sixteen-- or twenty-three, for that matter.

“You’re fine at the teaching part,” Athos tells him, trying to gentle his voice as much as he can. “You’re four months in. I didn’t hit my stride until my fourth or fifth _year_.”

D’Artagnan shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking lost without his bag strap to fiddle with. “Sometimes I’m standing in front of them and I realize I’m, like, literally just talking to myself. Like. Nothing is going in. I can’t get it to go in. I wanted my stuff to mean something, you know? But it’s useless. And I’m just-- I guess-- I’m not used to being bad at things?”

He ducks his head down, but the watery quiver of his lips tells Athos all he needs to know about the state of his eyes. Then: “fucking shit. ‘m sorry, Mister LaFere.”

Athos thinks, without warning, of the drive home his first year of teaching; the route to his then-apartment included a long, narrow bridge, one lane in each direction, which took about two minutes to cross. This was the Crying Bridge. Named for the precise reason that, sure of his privacy, Athos allowed himself to weep freely whilst crossing the bridge, and did so nearly every day from October to January of that year.

He does not tell d’Artagnan about the Crying Bridge.

Instead he says, patiently, “you were getting better with the _calling-me-Athos_ thing.”

D’Artagnan rubs his nose and audibly gulps down a mouthful of snot. “I think I’m burnt out. Is this what _burnt out_ feels like?”

“No,” Athos replies, simply. “This is caring. _Burnt out_ is when you don’t care.”

This startles a laugh out of the boy, at the very least, and he scratches his shoulder and nods.

“Okay. Okay. I’m-- I’m going home now. Thanks for the help planning. I promise I’ll finish it tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t. You’re taking the weekend off, remember? Your plans for Monday and Tuesday are fine. And break starts Wednesday. _Nobody_ will have the kids’ attention no matter _what_ we do.”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan whispers. Then he sniffles; Athos nudges the tissue box closer but d’Artagnan just blushes, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and hurries away.

*

The day before break, Porthos dresses up like Santa. Aramis tapes a piece of computer paper to his chest, on which is written _I’m with Black Santa_ in fuchsia magic marker. He’s also wearing a sweater with working Christmas lights. Athos is wearing a chunky black-and-white sweater with a Fair Isle-esque pattern of reindeer and poinsettias, festive but not painfully so. D’Artagnan wears a _Christmas Story_ t-shirt.

The art teachers have organized their yearly faculty brunch. The mood in the faculty room is cheerful as everybody crams down as many bagels and pastries as they can before the first bell rings. All anybody can talk about is break, of course. Eventually it occurs to Athos that he has no idea what d’Artagnan’s plans are, and tries to find out about them without asking the obvious _orphan-at-Christmas_ question.

But the boy volunteers things easily enough. “Oh, um, I’m going to France?” he says, getting powdered sugar on his shirt when he talks with his mouth full.

“Nice,” Porthos puts in, with a smile.

“Yeah, I have, like, an aunt and uncle there and they’re kind of, you know, they’ve got money, so they bought me my plane ticket.”

“You’re close?” Aramis prompts.

“So-- no. We’re not close at all. I guess they were just feeling bad for me. But it’ll be nice to see them. And to be in France. I haven’t been since high school.”

“What part of France?” Athos asks.

“Um, Gascony.” Suddenly sharing time seems to be over, and d’Artagnan snatches another doughnut and stuffs it in his mouth.

Christmas comes and goes in its usual style. Aramis goes home. Porthos and Athos are invited, of course-- they always are-- but, like they always do, they decline. Instead they marathon _Lord of the Rings_ at Athos’ house. Athos gets drunk enough to crawl over to the other side of the couch and cuddle up to the soft, good-smelling warmth that is Porthos, and Porthos makes a noise of utter happiness and wraps a comforter around them. They both fall asleep well before the Ring is destroyed. And in the morning they wake to hangovers and the loop of the DVD menu, and Christmas is over for another year.

The week between Christmas and New Year’s is as short as ever. The pile of work they’ve all been saving for it is vast, but still it’s a treat to sleep past sunrise for so many days in a row. Athos writes his unit plans until March. He also watches the first season of _Breaking Bad_ , deep-cleans his kitchen cabinets, and drinks six bottles of wine in four days.

Aramis returns on December 30. New Years is his favorite holiday, for some reason, and even though Athos and Porthos kind of hate it, they always let him dress them up and drag them out to some horrid $75-a-head open bar thing. At least the food is usually good.

In keeping with tradition, they also buy their tickets a day in advance, the decision of where to go vastly aided by the fact that three-quarters of places are sold out.

_We should invite pup_ , Porthos suggests, as they’re discussing their plans.

But when they do, all they get back is _i really appreciate it but im crazy jet-lagged… see you monday_.

They end up accepting an invitation from another teacher to a dinner at a country club. Aramis buzzes around joyfully, dancing with everyone, attempting to kiss everyone too, and managing it with at least two or three of them. Around 11:55pm, he drags Porthos and Aramis out onto the floor for the countdown.

When the clock strikes midnight, a giant balloon full of confetti pops near the ceiling. Aramis kisses Porthos. Then he pulls back, looking startled and suddenly very drunk, and kisses Athos too, apparently for good measure.

By 1:00am January 1, Porthos has them back to his apartment. Athos rings in 2016 by falling asleep on Porthos’ sofa, listening to Aramis spewing up his guts in the bathroom and Porthos teasing and comforting him by turns.

*

5:15am, and winter break is over. And though it feels as though the year should be half-over now, it isn’t, really, and the stretch from now until June seems to end somewhere beyond the horizon.

D’Artagnan is a little cheerier, at any rate. He’s brought belated Christmas gifts back from France with him: chestnuts for Athos, prunes for Aramis, and a little bottle of black truffle oil for Porthos. Time off, and time with family, however distant, were clearly things he needed. There’s less of a shadow around his eyes, less of a weight bearing down on his shoulders, and Athos relaxes, feeling as though the boy may have finally hit his stride.

It’s only Thursday of the third week back when this changes.

Athos’ phone buzzes as he’s about to make some copies. He pulls it out and regards the message.

_this is your prep, right?_

_Yes_ , he replies, frowning; d’Artagnan is, as most first years are, petrified of having his phone out during the day. And he knows Athos’ schedule as well as Athos.

A moment. Then: _can you come by?_

_Be there in a second_ , he replies, and hurries to the freshmen wing.

The second he arrives, d’Artagnan slips out into the hall. His face is pale, a sickly look on his olive skin; his eyes are dry but Athos has the distinct impression that this might change at any moment.

“They found my answer key,” he whispers. “To the chapter test from Tuesday.”

“Where did you have it?”

“In my desk. But not like, locked up or anything. Treville’s gonna fire me. Is he gonna fire me?”

Athos wants to roll his eyes-- until he takes a moment to understand the genuine fear behind d’Artagnan’s question. “No,” he says, patiently, “he’s not going to fire you. Things like this happen.”

“I can’t believe it,” d’Artagnan mumbles, and Athos looks through the glass to his students, who are casting the odd glance out into the hallway. Athos puts a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and moves him against the lockers, out of sight.

“I can’t believe it,” d’Artagnan says again, oblivious to Athos’ intervention. “I’m, like, actually really upset.”

“I can see that,” Athos replies, patiently. “But you’re taking it personally, and you can’t do that.”

“I can’t not! I was so excited about their grades-- and Athos, one of them was Nicole!”

Athos fights back a wince; Nicole is one of d’Artagnan’s favorite students. He puts his hand back on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and leaves it there this time.

“Listen, d’Artagnan: kids do shit. When I was a sophomore, I remember, a bunch of us stole our chemistry teacher’s key for the midterm. We had nothing against him. It was a survival thing. I’ll never forget, he cried when he found out. In front of all of us. We felt awful.”

D’Artagnan rubs his mouth. “I’d, like, _reeaally_ prefer not to cry in front of my class.”

If he goes back in now, this seems a realistic possibility.

“I’ll watch your kids,” Athos says, dropping his hand. “What, are they just working on their outlines? No-- you need to take a minute. Go.”

“Tell them I had to pee.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling them anything,” Athos replies. “Just glaring if they asked.”

“Oh.”

D’Artagnan stares another minute, then jogs away, disappearing into the faculty bathroom down the hall; Athos goes into his classroom and, as promised, generally just glares at the kids. It’s a solid seven or eight minutes before d’Artagnan returns. He seems calmer but no less disappointed, and as Athos leaves he is sitting down at his desk, waving at his students to continue their independent work.

After school that day they sit in Athos’ room, waiting for d’Artagnan to appear. When he finally does, it’s with a quiet _um_ , and a posture like a kid seeking his parents after a nightmare.

It’s Porthos who stands, goes over, and hugs him. D’Artagnan drops his head against Porthos’ shoulder and heaves an almighty sigh. They stand this way for half a minute. When Porthos finally lets go, d’Artagnan peels away with an expression that suggests he might have stayed there all night, if permitted.

“Did you decide what you’re going to do?” Athos prompts. D’Artagnan drops into a chair.

“Yeah. ‘m gonna give ‘em all zeros.” He shrugs. “They just-- _ugh_ , they did so well! I was so excited! Like, thinking I was finally getting the hang of it! The average was an _eighty-nine_. With those eight kids down, it’s a _fifty-seven_! But yeah, I’ll-- give them zeros. And call their parents, I guess. Shit. I kind of feel sick.”

“You’re takin’ it too personally,” Porthos says, and d’Artagnan groans.

“That’s what Athos said. But it’s hard not to.”

“Well, I’m not your mentor,” Aramis cuts in. “And I’m not as nice as Porthos. When they say don’t take it personally, d’Artagnan, what they mean is: you’re not a person to your kids. Literally. You can’t take it personally because _they don’t see you as a person_. You’re here when they get here. You’re here when they leave. Your sole purpose in their minds isn’t even to teach them; it’s to entertain them, seventy minutes a day, five days a week.”

D’Artagnan blinks miserably up at Aramis. “What the fuck,” he whispers, mournfully.

“But it’s easier said than done, we know,” Porthos cuts in, kindly. “This really got to you, huh?”

D’Artagnan nods weakly. “I cried in the bathroom. Athos watched my kids.”

“You’re becoming a real teacher, pup.”

“That’s what you said when I came in hungover on a Tuesday.”

“It’s like a video game,” Aramis explains, illustrating with his hand. “There are different badges to attain.”

“Drunk on a Monday.” Porthos ticks them off on his fingers. “Cried in the Bathroom; Cried in the Bathroom _During_ Class. Eh, Cursed Out by a Kid. Got that one?”

“Yes. Mark H.”

“Cursed Out by a Parent.”

“Not yet?”

“You got First Year Stomach Flu,” Aramis takes over. “To get your First Year Chest Cold badge, you need at least five colds.”

D’Artagnan thinks a moment. “Three, but it’s only January.”

“First One in the Parking Lot?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Copy A Hundred and Twenty Worksheets with a Massive Typo.”

“Yep.”

It’s working; d’Artagnan is smiling now, however tiredly.

“Cockroach under your Desk?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Kid Forgets Your Name, and It’s Later than October?”

“Yeah.”

“Smell a Kid’s BO and Need to Make Sure It’s Not Yours?”

“So many times.”

“Kid Throws Up in your Class.”

“Yeah, Alexis.”

“Kid Shits Themselves in your Class.”

D’Artagnan bursts out laughing. “No! Good to know I have something to look forward to. That _happens_ in high school?”

“I have never had a kid shit themselves in my class,” Athos assures him, and both Aramis and Porthos round on him with curious expressions.

“Seriously?” Aramis prompts, at the same time that Porthos demands, “ _never_?”

“Must be something about STEM,” Athos replies airily. “As history teachers we tend not to terrify the children _quite_ so much.”

D’Artagnan grins over at him.

“Then, of course, there’s the badge of Custodian Telling You They Found Graffiti in the Boiler Room That Says Mister D’Herblay Meet Me Here Period Six If You Want to Fuck.” Aramis sighs. “I still have no idea who that was. It creeps me out sometimes. Like, thinking back to two years ago, I can’t remember any student fondly without worrying it was them.”

“I will happily fail to obtain that badge,” Athos deadpans.

“Same here,” Porthos agrees.

Aramis points at d’Artagnan. “Watch out. You could be on a soap opera.”

D’Artagnan heaves a massive sigh, and drops his head into his hands. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, you guys. I’m all right. Honestly. It’s stupid to be so hurt by it, I just-- _ugh_. Like, I don’t even know what I’m going to say to them tomorrow.”

“Take the day,” Porthos suggests, kindly. “Take the weekend to get your head on straight.”

“I’ve already been out two days.”

“Less than five in your first year is its own merit badge,” Aramis scoffs. “I was probably out at least ten.”

“You’re always out at least ten.”

Aramis sniffs and turns his nose up to Porthos. “I am not robust.”

“I’m bein’ serious, d’Artagnan,” Porthos continues, ignoring him. “Tomorrow’s Friday. Make it a long weekend, sleep in, have a nice big breakfast. Go to a museum, or whatever history teachers do for fun. Put a little space between you an’ this building.”

D’Artagnan thinks about this a minute, then finally nods. “Yeah. All right. I will. Do you, um-- do you all want to get dinner or something?”

“Tonight, or tomorrow?”

“Either. Both.” D’Artagnan slumps forward. “Nevermind, sorry, I’m being really pathetic right now. You must be so fucking tired of me.” He’s not just finishing for a reassurance, Athos realizes, because in the next moment he actually gathers his things and heads for the door.

Porthos intercepts, bodily. “I can’t tonight, but I’m free tomorrow.”

“I’m free tomorrow,” Athos echoes.

“I’m free now,” Aramis says, standing. “And tomorrow. Tomorrow you’re playing sick, so we’ll go a bit farther afield. Tonight, have you been to Tir Na Nog yet? It’s sort of the faculty hangout. They have half price drinks for teachers three to six every weekday. And Irish nachos-- nachos on _potatoes_! They give you _the worst_ indigestion but it’s completely worth it.”

D’Artagnan eyes the sliver of space Porthos has left him to escape; he turns back to them then, and lets Aramis put an arm around his shoulders. “You’re not busy?”

“He’s between lovers,” Porthos supplies. “An’ he always saves his gradin’ for Sunday night, ‘round six o’clock.”

“Which I do not condone,” Aramis replies. “But nevertheless. Shall we?”

D’Artagnan stands straight up another minute, then slumps into Aramis’ arm and nods.

“I won’t get him drunk,” Aramis promises, the words thrown back over his shoulder.

*

_I got him drunk_ , is the text that wakes Athos up around 11:30pm that night.

This quickly followed by:

_He got himself drunk_

_Our poor puppy_

_I drove to his apt so hed have his car, come get me please_

There is a moment, the tiniest moment, in which a huffy little part of Athos’ mind asks why Aramis has texted him, not Porthos-- then he remembers the relative distance to their apartments and begrudgingly acknowledges that this makes more sense.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and texts back for the address.

D’Artagnan lives in a little complex of squat brick apartments, maybe a dozen buildings in all, surrounded by a horseshoe parking lot. It isn’t bad, for twenty-three. There’s a big grassy lawn in the middle, and plentiful streetlights; there’s even stations supplying doggy waste bags.

The buildings all look the same, though, so it takes a minute for him to find the right one. Aramis and d’Artagnan are sitting on the stoop when he arrives, Aramis two steps above d’Artagnan with d’Artagnan’s head on his knee. There’s vomit on the sidewalk. 

“He’s not locked out, is he?” Athos asks, in greeting.

“Nah,” Aramis replies. “Just wanted some fresh air.” He pets d’Artagnan’s head. “How you doin’ down there, Charlie?”

“N’ver drinkin’ ‘gain,” comes the muzzy reply.

“Okay, sweetheart. Wait until state testing. Think you’re done puking? Okay, then, ready to go inside?”

D’Artagnan sways himself upright in response, and Aramis hops down to stand beside him, getting an arm around his waist. Together they make it up the steps.

Not quite sure of his welcome, Athos mills about on the lawn until Aramis comes out a few minutes later with a Tupperware full of water. He makes a mostly successful attempt to flood the vomit off the sidewalk. Then he straightens and smiles at Athos, a little tiredly, before disappearing again. 

“He actually will be sick for this sick day of his,” Aramis notes, when he reappears for good. “Til noon, at any rate.” He tests to see he’s locked the door. 

“Is he in bed?”

“Mm-hm. In bed with a trash can by his head. Just like college.”

“Or three weeks ago, after the New Year’s party.”

“Mm.” They’re to Athos’ car by now, and Aramis flops into the passenger seat and closes the door. He presses his thumb pensively to the window as Athos pulls away.

“What happened?” Athos asks, after a minute or two.

“What happened is what I said happened.”

“You got him drunk.”

“I know you’re joking, but can you not?” Aramis’ voice is suddenly tight. “That was in no way my intention.”

“So, what happened?”

“I don’t know! He must have a shit tolerance or be _really_ fucking run down or something, because I swear he didn’t drink that much! I didn’t even realize he was drunk until he was taking a while in the bathroom and I went to check on him and found him-- throwing up, crying.” Aramis waves his hand, makes a noise of pure exasperation. “I feel--- Christ, I feel awful, Athos. I knew he was upset; I should’ve kept a better eye on him.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” Athos replies. “Contrary to popular belief, d’Artagnan _is_ a grown man.”

“Yes and no. You know, your first year teaching-- part of the trauma is it’s also your first year being a real grown up. I must’ve called my mom twice a day that year, and I was twenty-five. And Charlie doesn’t have that. Obviously. He’s homesick.”

Athos frowns. “Not to be indelicate, but-- he didn’t have support in California, either.”

He doesn’t look away from the road, but he can feel Aramis’ eyes on him. “What?” he demands, after a moment. 

“You do realize-- his dad only died this past spring, Ath.”

Athos had not realized. 

“Shit,” he huffs.

“Believe me, I didn’t know either. He said-- fuck-- he seemed like he wanted to talk about it, but he couldn’t figure out how to. And so I was trying to ask him stuff, you know-- and I asked him how old he was when his father died. He said _twenty-three_ , and believe me, my stomach just-- bottomed out.”

“What happened?”

“Some sort of accident or something-- he wouldn’t say more. It was March, pretty close before he graduated. And the way he tells it he just sort of panicked and found a job on the east coast. And here he is.”

“Shit,” Athos sighs, again. Being an orphan does take some practice; it’s been well over a decade for him and he still doesn’t have it down completely. Still startles when he lists his neighbor as his emergency contact. Still-- at _thirty-eight_ \-- finds himself googling things he feels like his father should probably be there to explain to him. ( _Is there a Roth option on 403(b)’s? First colonoscopy not until fifty, right, or did they make it forty now?_ )

Athos doesn’t say this aloud. Aramis, for all his good intentions, would not have anything to add; still has a mother and a father and a handful of siblings, and two grandparents stubbornly hanging in there. 

Instead he says, “we’re still all getting dinner tomorrow?”

“We sure as hell are. And-- easy does it, hm? Like, he just needs-- I don’t know what he needs. But a hug or something wouldn’t hurt. He really looks up to you, you know.”

It’s raining a little now, and Tir Na Nog’s neon signs blur as they come into view. Athos spots the familiar minivan and pulls up beside it. He watches Aramis unlock his car, get in, start it, and pull away; then Athos looks over at the seat where Aramis had been not a minute before and feels stupidly lonely.

*

It’s not their place to tell Porthos, but it wasn’t necessarily Aramis’ place to tell Athos, so they tell him the next morning. Porthos, of course, pulls a look of mournful empathy. Unconsciously he sticks an arm out and flexes his hand like he wants to pet a small animal.

They text d’Artagnan when the day ends. He replies at once, seeming inordinately happy that they haven’t forgotten their plans, and suggests a diner down the block from his apartment.

When they get there, d’Artagnan is already in a booth in the corner. He’s wearing faded black jeans and a tan baja hoodie, and Athos stares at him for a moment before internalizing, at long last, that d’Artagnan is from California. Athos was always brought up to view himself as a Frenchman accidentally born outside of France. It was an identity he extended to the boy, but at the moment d’Artagnan looks every bit the west coast beach bum, except, _we didn’t live, like, right by the coast; my dad was, um, owned a farm…._

He also looks about seventeen.

Porthos grunts as he slides into the booth next to d’Artagnan, rubbing his back in greeting. D’Artagnan smiles. His eyes are droopy and he might still be the slightest bit hungover, but their presence relaxes him visibly.

“So what did you do with your day?” Aramis asks. “Besides chug Gatorade?”

“Oh. Um, I watched Netflix. Like, all day. It was actually pretty amazing.”

“Any good documentaries?”

“Um... _Deep Space Nine_?”

Porthos makes a loud noise of approval. D’Artagnan smiles again, looking shy but pleased, and Athos doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing him in casual clothes. For a second he feels like he’s eating dinner with a student.

Their server comes over then, a young woman with wavy auburn hair and a little smirk hidden under her smile.

D’Artagnan’s face lights up like a sunrise. “Hey, Constance.”

“Hey, Charlie. Who’ve you brought?”

D’Artagnan introduces them, then introduces Constance, at length: _she’s studying education, this is her last year, I’ve told her she should apply for a job at Lincoln, she’s getting her cert in LAL, also next year she wants to start her Masters in Special Ed, but she hasn’t decided which program to do yet--_

The spell of young love keeps him talking for a few minutes. But after that d’Artagnan leaves the conversation to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis-- meaning the conversation is left mostly to Porthos and Aramis. 

But soon food shuts them all up. D’Artagnan works through a grilled cheese, mashed potatoes, and two cups of coffee. Then he orders a chocolate milkshake. He drinks a third of it before putting his head down on Porthos’ shoulder and falling asleep. 

Porthos finishes d’Artagnan’s milkshake; then, when the bill comes, pays d’Artagnan’s portion. When Athos tries to hand him a few dollars, he waves it away. “She charged him for a kids’ meal,” he whispers, grinning. 

When she comes back for the check, Constance regards them with her head tilted. “Is Charlie all right?”

“Rough week at work,” Porthos replies, voice quiet. “We’re keeping him company.”

“He’s always telling me his teaching adventures. Getting me ready, I guess.”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you this one,” Aramis sighs. “Make sure you hug him when he does.”

Which reminds Athos. Aramis seems keen on soliciting hugs for their pup at any opportunity, and it makes him feel as though he’s been personally neglectful somehow. Which is silly, but nevertheless.

Porthos nudges d’Artagnan awake, and he blinks slowly up at them, taking a moment to orient himself. “Ready to head home?” Porthos asks, and he nods.

They offer to walk back with him, but d’Artagnan smirks and points out that he can literally see his front door from where they’re standing. Aramis laughs and hugs him warmly. Then it’s Porthos’ turn, and it’s as though they’re competing to do the best job of it, because Porthos makes sure to rub d’Artagnan’s back and rock him side-to-side a couple of times. D’Artagnan laughs when he lets go. He runs a hand through his hair to settle it back into shape, and quite pointedly does not look at Athos.

Athos goes up to him and hugs him.

D’Artagnan doesn’t quite sink into it, the way he does with Porthos and Aramis, but still he hugs back and holds for a beat before letting go.

“Thanks, guys,” d’Artagnan murmurs, flashing his smile at each of them in turn.

*

The next Wednesday Athos wakes up around 1:00am with an upset stomach; he tries to blame it on dinner before remembering that dinner had been turkey meatloaf and steamed carrots. So, probably not dinner. Still he tries to be optimistic through the first round of diarrhea-- but when the second and third hit within twenty minutes it’s a little harder to ignore. So is the vomiting, which starts around 1:45.

He’s sick.

Fuck.

He’d almost made it to February.

He toddles back into his bedroom, grabs his phone, and calls the hotline. “LaFere,” he grinds out, when they ask. Then comes the familiar set of questions, which he could luckily answer in his sleep: “the high school. History. Illness. Whole day. Yes,” he finishes, when they ask if he needs a sub.

“I’ll relay the message,” replies the unlucky secretary whose week it is to man the hotline overnight. “Go back to bed, sweetie, you sound terrible!”

But he can’t just go back to bed, as much as he’d like to, because the AP test is always looming, and his kids deserve good sub plans. Well, decent sub plans, at any rate. _Decent_ is really all he can aim for when he has to stop in the middle of writing them four times to dash to the bathroom and explode from one end or the other.

At 2:38am, he’s finally satisfied. He emails the plans to Porthos and Aramis with the subject line _print please_ and the message _taking the day… stomach bug… fuck_. Then he brings a pillow into the bathroom with him and hunkers down on the tiles.

The day passes in bouts of illness, broken by unsatisfying cat naps on the bathroom floor. Around noon Athos tries to eat a piece of toast. Two minutes later he throws up in the kitchen sink, unable even to make it to the guest bathroom in time.

But after this things seem to slow down a little. The shits have definitely ended, at any rate, so Athos takes a big plastic bowl from the kitchen and goes to lie down in bed.

Aramis texts around 5:00pm. It is, helpfully, a toilet emoji, the smiling poop emoji, and the surgical mask smiley, and Athos does not dignify this with a reply.

Porthos texts not too long after. A bit more sympathetically, his message is a brief update on the day, including a relayed message from his sub; he also asks if Athos needs anything.

_No, stay away_ , Athos texts back, _but thanks_.

He manages to fall asleep shortly after. When he wakes around 8:30, he finds a message from d’Artagnan: _hey, Porthos says youre sick… im sorry! please let me know if i can do anything… hope youre getting some sleep at least! we all missed you but remember to take tomorrow too if you need!_

For a few stupid seconds Athos thinks he might cry. He throws up instead, into his poor green popcorn bowl.

In the weird way of stomach bugs, twenty-four hours pass, and suddenly it’s as if the storm clouds clear. Athos calls the hotline, sets an alarm for 6:30am, and burrows deep into bed. When his alarm goes off he writes his sub plans, emails them, then sleeps straight until his body wakes him at 1:37pm.

When he wakes he’s shaky and painfully thirsty, but his stomach is fine. He goes into the kitchen, eats a banana, then boils a whole kettle of water and takes it into the living room, along with a hot plate to put it on, a mug (Brandon something-or-other, 2004), and a handful of peppermint tea bags. He flips on the TV to no station in particular. Then he curls up, drinks four cups of tea over the next hour or so, and doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep again until he’s woken by his bladder around 4:00pm.

He’s feeling strong enough now for a shower. The warmth and the comfort and the blissful feeling of being _clean_ help even more, and he finds the energy to change the sheets on his bed (though not enough to get the nasty ones into the washing machine _just_ yet).

For dinner he cooks himself scrambled eggs and oatmeal. It sits well in his stomach, and he makes some more tea and takes it into the living room to watch TV again.

The next time he looks at the clock it’s 8:18pm. There is no reason he should not go in tomorrow; Porthos would go in tomorrow, and so would Aramis. There’s a chance d’Artagnan would have gone in today. Athos himself, in his earlier years, would have gone in tomorrow-- but that was back when he thought he was saving the world.

Now he’s tired. Tired and shaken and nobody’s hero, and anyway tomorrow’s Friday.

He calls the hotline, does his sub plans, and goes to bed with no alarm set.

*

“Hey, sickie,” Aramis greets, Monday morning. Athos looks up from the pile of half-done assignments and passive aggressive notes left by his substitute teachers. Aramis comes over and presses his hand to Athos’ brow. Though he’s been better for days now, and never had a fever to begin with, Athos lets out a pathetic little grunt and nuzzles Aramis’ hand until he’s rewarded with the brush of fingers over his hair. 

“There’s a stomach thing going around,” Aramis says, flopping down in his chair. “Some of my freshmen have had it. How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” Athos snorts. “No, I feel better. Since sometime Friday.”

“Well, it’s good you had the weekend to recover.”

“Mm.” He props his elbows in his desk and hides his face in his hands. “Why is cleaning up after a sub almost worse than coming in sick?”

“Welcome to my world,” Aramis sighs. It’s one of his more annoying catchphrases, given that every time he uses it, he is referencing something pretty widely experienced. Though, to be fair, Aramis _is_ out a lot.

Porthos comes in a few minute later; he grins widely, lopes over to Athos’ desk, and swoops him into a one-armed hug. Then he produces a large, stainless steel thermos. 

It’s warm when he hands it to Athos, and Athos takes a moment to process. “Porthos,” he says, when he realizes what it is, “you didn’t actually have to make me soup. I feel fine now.”

Porthos only shrugs. “Had some celery I had to use.”

Hoping his voice is going to come out less gruff than it feels, Athos mutters, “thanks, Porthos.”

He’d packed a sandwich and banana, but he sticks them in the fridge for tomorrow. For lunch he eats the soup; it’s chock full of chicken, rice, and vegetables, and it’s quite clear to even Athos’ plebian palate that everything about it is from scratch.

It’s a silver lining in an otherwise cloudy day. The kids are rowdy, almost a week out from their last real lesson, and a few suggest not-so-subtly that they prefer days they have a substitute anyway.

_Fine_ , Athos tries and fails not to think. _I should just call out more often, then, if neither of us really want me to be here._

But then he feels crappy for thinking that, and the day spirals from there.

After school there’s a knock at his door; he’s supposed to be grading, but he’s really just staring grumpily at the pile of essays.

“Hey!”

D’Artagnan comes in, smiling widely; his arms twitch once, as though he’s going to come and hug Athos hello. Oh, right. The last time they saw one another for any appreciable length of time, they’d hugged goodbye. But the boy controls himself now.

“Sorry I didn’t come by this morning. The copier jammed, like, three copies into my packet. How are you feeling?”

Worse than he had this morning, is the honest answer, though not exactly in a sick way.

“Better. And I’m not offended,” Athos promises. “But we didn’t get a chance to talk last week. How did everything work out with the cheating?”

D’Artagnan shrugs, looking tired but not quite as weary as he had at the beginning of the scandal. “Nicole wrote me this really long letter. She said she’s sorry, you know, and that she was really worried when I didn’t come in Friday. She said she didn’t think about how it would upset me; she just wanted to get an A. I told her I wasn’t mad but that I was still going to look at her differently... but maybe I was just mad, because it’s been a week and a half now and it’s, like, back to normal. Ish. And, hey, I haven’t even cried about it since last Tuesday, so.”

It’s a very d’Artagnan thing to say, and Athos feels sure that Porthos or Aramis would actually hug him now. But Athos feels himself roll his eyes. 

“You really are overreacting, d’Artagnan. Nobody can force the kids to learn if they don’t want to.”

“I mean, of course they want to.” D’Artagnan is frowning. “They didn’t think it through, but it’s not like they did it _because_ it was wrong. They did it even though it was wrong, _because_ they were scared.”

“Maybe. Maybe that was Nicole’s reasoning. But some of them honestly don’t care, you know. It’s not a crime to admit that. Honestly, you’ll feel a lot better if you do.”

D’Artagnan’s only response is a huff of nervous laughter. “Right. Anyway.”

“No, really,” Athos presses. “Your conscience won’t let you say it aloud, but some of them are just useless, d’Artagnan. And this insistence that you care for each and every one of them-- eventually, it’ll be the death of you. It’s too much. I’m sorry, but, let me tell you, one of the first things they said when I walked into the room today was, _you still look tired, Mister L, why don’t you take this week off_?”

“They’re just joking.”

“No, they aren’t. The majority of them would really rather we just fuck off and let them sit here and text and make out in the stairwells for seven and a half hours a day! You-- you are a nonrenewable resource, d’Artagnan, and if you give them everything _they will take it_. And you’ll have killed yourself trying to save this world that none of us are going to save anyway!”

“That’s--”

“What?”

“That’s bullshit,” d’Artagnan spits.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Athos snarls, and that’s when d’Artagnan turns heel and stalks out of the classroom.

Athos puts his head in his hands.

It’s still there half an hour later when his door opens a second time, and Porthos’ heavy footfalls come inside.

“What did you say to the pup?”

Athos frowns without lifting his head. “What do you mean, what did I say?”

“I mean he just came in my room half way to a panic attack.”

Shit. 

Athos sits up. “I didn’t mean to upset him,” he protests, though he knows how futile it is to try to defend himself. He deserves whatever upbraiding Porthos sees fit to give, he really does. “I was just trying to reel him back in a little. He’s young. Still with that Freedom Writers mentality. He thinks he’s going to save the world.”

“And?”

“And thinking that way only breaks your heart.”

“And?”

Athos has nothing to say.

Porthos huffs. “An’ you had a shit day after a shit week an’ you just took it out on the next worst thing to an actual puppy dog.”

“He’s running himself ragged,” Athos replies. He picks up his essays, neatens their stack, and puts them back down. “My reality check may not have been genteel, but it was necessary.”

“Jesus.” Porthos uncrosses his arms, puts a hand on his hip instead. “Here I thought you just got snippy with him. But you really-- you really tried to-- take him down a notch, didn’t you? I mean, you really meant to kick his ass?”

“This place’ll do it to him eventually.”

Now Porthos sighs, and runs a hand over his mouth.

“Athos-- listen. It hurts more the more you care; I get that. This is my eighth year an’ I still cry, Jesus, prob’ly more weeks than I don’t.”

“Really?”

“God, yes. It’s a long drive home. I wear my sunglasses.”

Athos is silent a minute. Finally he asks, “do you know the-- the skinny bridge, when you get off 80 and go over the river?”

Porthos nods.

“It takes two minutes to drive over. My first year I cried those two minutes, every day, for months.”

“Not so much anymore?”

Athos shrugs. Not crying, in theory, seems like it should mean a better mood overall; but in reality now it just seems a little detached. Everything seems detached. Some gear inside of him has popped out of place and just won’t be jammed in again.

_I’ve felt like shit for longer than a week_ , Athos almost says. Instead he asks, “how’s d’Artagnan?”

Porthos takes a deep breath and finally sits. “He’s all right. I kinda talked him down, gave him a good hug, sent him home. He’ll feel better after he sleeps on it.”

“Is he still mad at me?”

“Never was, Ath. Just a bit of dissonance, I guess. He doesn’t ever want to disagree with you but he also can’t believe you this time. He wants to save lives an’ all that but it’s like, _if Athos can’t then how can I?_ Quarter life crisis.”

“Teaching is its own forty-year crisis.”

“Fuck, you’re hard to stay mad at,” Porthos sighs. “Do you wanna get dinner?”

“No.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“No.”

“Okay, Eeyore. I’ll let you think on things, then. ‘night.”

“Goodnight,” Athos whispers. 

*

The next morning Athos goes to d’Artagnan’s classroom. It isn’t as though he’s not there plenty-- every Wednesday, with only one or two exceptions-- but they never really talk in here. That’s always done in Athos’ room. So it makes sense that d’Artagnan looks a little startled as the sound of his door opening interrupts his fervent grading. 

“I might be a dick,” Athos announces, without preamble. D’Artagnan does not reply, but he does put his pen down and regard Athos with a slightly guarded version of his typical deference. 

“My first year of teaching, I thought I was going to save the world. That lasted-- maybe ‘til October of my third year. It’s-- maybe not the best comparison-- but always on medical dramas there’s one doctor lamenting how upset they are when they can’t help a patient. And then another comes along as says something like, _the good doctors never stop getting upset over it_. But I _have_ insulated myself to it. I _am_ burnt out. It’s probably best you don’t follow in my footsteps. You’re better than I am at this, by far. And I can’t even say it’s made me happier, not caring, because I’m not even happy.”

It’s probably the longest monologue he’s ever given on anything not from a lesson plan.

D’Artagnan’s brow is crunched. “You’re a fantastic teacher,” he mumbles. Of course that’s what he’d latch onto. 

“Pedagogically,” Athos allows. 

“No. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t put down what you do. So you don’t feel like you care-- only you know if that’s true. But on the outside, to the rest of us, to your kids, you care-- so much. And, like, that’s what matters. What matters is what you actually do.”

“Nevertheless, it’s hardly my job to discourage you,” Athos murmurs. “It’s pretty much the opposite of it, in fact.”

“You didn’t discourage me,” d’Artagnan promises. “I mean, I am discouraged. But you didn’t do it-- kind of, like, everything did.”

“You don’t owe me any charity here. Call me a dick, if that would help at all.”

“You’re not a dick,” d’Artagnan sighs, pushing away from his desk and slumping back into his chair. His hair falls smooth and just a little bit flat, over the planes of his face. “Just-- _fuck_. Just this is all I’ve got, y’know? Pretty much, anyway. I’ve got, like, one third of a tiny apartment and two roommates I don’t know from Adam, and I’ve got three friends I met less than a year ago and the woman I love isn’t even out of college and already she’s married to some ancient jackoff. That plus teaching. It’s all I’m doing with my life-- literally, everything. So if it doesn’t mean anything--”

“It does,” Athos insists. “It does mean something.”

“And I just-- god, sometimes I just want to go home. You know? And then it’s like, well, fuck, I could move back to California but my _dad’s_ still _dead_ so-- whatever.”

His eyes widen, just a little, and he shuts up then.

Athos goes to a student desk and perches on it as Porthos does: butt on the desk, feet on the chair. “He passed away more recently that I realized,” he prompts, quietly.

“Year ago this March 25th,” d’Artagnan mumbles, and Athos commits the date to memory.

 “D’Artagnan, are you-- talking to anyone?”

“Like a therapist, you mean? No.”

“You might consider it. A lot of teachers do, and obviously you’ve got more to deal with on top of the classroom stress. You’re-- honestly much more composed than I think anyone could expect of you. It would just be another way to look after yourself.”

“Look after myself?” d’Artagnan snorts. “I’m not looking after myself. I’ve lost, like, fifteen pounds this year, I think, last time I weighed myself.”

“Well, don’t tell Porthos. Or maybe do tell Porthos. He’ll make you lunches so big you can have half for dinner.”

D’Artagnan’s smile is brittle, his face drawn tight around it. Athos’ thoughts are a blur in his head, but the one he latches onto is this:

_What would you want to hear?_

_What_ do _you want to hear?_

“This isn’t the last stop on the line,” Athos tells him, softly. “Somehow, you are going to get from here to there. But if therapy could make the ride smoother, there’s no shame in it. And if you don’t want to try it-- just know that you can talk to me. You really can. I bit your head off yesterday but I feel well enough ashamed I don’t think we have to worry about that happening again.”

D’Artagnan closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Why fuck?”

“Because now I kinda just wanna cry, but the kids come in, like, five minutes.”

“Why don’t I let you be then?” Athos offers, sliding off the desk. “I’ll see you later, d’Artagnan.”

That afternoon Porthos barges into Athos’ room and hugs him without even letting him stand up first. Athos sinks against his belly. “You’ve got some shit goin’ on or something, huh?” he murmurs, and Athos blows out a sigh against the fabric of his light blue dress shirt. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

“What kind of cookies you want for lunch tomorrow?”

The customary protest dies in his throat. “Double chocolate,” he burbles instead. “Wi’ walnuts.”

*

The next morning Porthos drops off a dozen softball size cookies, chocolate dough with milk chocolate chips, dark chocolate chips, and walnuts mixed throughout. Athos microwaves six to perfect gooeyness and eats them for lunch. The ensuing stomachache doesn’t surprise him, but neither does it deter him from eating the other six for dinner. 

Food doesn’t mean as much to him as it means to Porthos. But still it is an uncommonly heartening thing to literally hold, smell, taste, the proof that you are loved. 

It’s still such an unlikely thought.


	3. Third Marking Period

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous warnings apply, plus a heads up that d'Art talks a little more about his dad's death (which was from violent causes, though the discussion is not graphic).

5:30am, and Athos’ alarm goes off. It’s always a nasty feeling, heading back in after a snow day, and Athos halfheartedly checks the school website on his phone just in case they have another (that they forgot to call him about?). They don’t.

Not that yesterday was anything for the history books: he shoveled, got drunk at lunchtime, and spent most of the afternoon dozing. Still he had the world to himself, and that’s always nice.

Third marking period started last week, so they’re official halfway through the year. But September and June both seem terribly far. They’re all quite adrift, in the grey, drippy winter, which is frankly pointless unless it yields another snow day. And fast.

The attitude of the entire building is just as sullen; he gets to school at 7:26, and he’s still one of the first cars in the lot. In the faculty room the copier has been left jammed. Athos hides away in his classroom with the lights still off, waiting for his friends to arrive so that they can sulk together.

D’Artagnan, when he does arrive, smells like cough drops, and the tip of his nose is pink. Athos has lost count of how many colds he’s gotten this year, but this has got to be the fourth or fifth at least. It seems the worst yet. He’s hoarse as hell, wheezing a little when he talks for too long and blowing his nose every other minute.

Bad colds are a bitch. They’re not quite enough to justify calling out, but they’re awful just the same, especially the kind that hit the nose, throat, and chest all at once, as this one seems to have done.

They’ve all been on the lookout for the kid recently. Athos, naturally, filled Porthos and Aramis in on their conversation a few weeks ago, and since then life has been a balancing act of watching after their puppy without making it painfully obvious that they’re doing so.

Porthos is the best at this. He’s stepped up his lunch-making habits for all of them; that way it doesn’t seem suspicious, and the added benefit is that yesterday for lunch Athos had guacamole-stuffed chicken and a corncake instead of a Lean Cuisine or sandwich.

Aramis has mostly just taken to hugging him at every opportunity. But that’s Aramis, and even if it isn’t entirely subtle, nobody is ever going to complain about a hug from Aramis.

Athos flounders, as always, trying to work out what’s best to do. Today’s problem, though, seems to have an unusually easy solution.

Athos runs down to the corner store on his prep. He buys a big box of nice, expensive tissues and a cup of lemon tea with honey (he doesn’t actually know if d’Artagnan drinks tea, but he’ll take the risk). He gets more cough drops, too, just in case.

D’Artagnan is in front of the class, gesturing to a PowerPoint when Athos knocks on the door; he signals his class to finish copying the notes, and comes over.

Athos puts the bag and the tea in his hands. “Supplies,” he explains.

D’Artagnan gapes. “Thanks,” he huffs, eventually, sounding even hoarser than he had this morning.

“You know there’s no shame in showing a movie.”

“If it’s this bad tomorrow, I may. Thanks, Athos. I mean it.”

But d’Artagnan seems marginally better the next morning. “Thank god,” Aramis comments. “You’d’ve been crusty for picture day!”

Oh, right.

Tomorrow is picture day.

“Ugh,” Athos remarks.

“What sweater are you going to wear this year, Ath?” Aramis teases.

“I shall give the matter my full attention tonight. What fresh hell are you going to wreak on poor Nancy?”

“Nancy?” d’Artagnan rasps, intrigued.

“Nancy DiLisi,” Athos explains. “The only faculty member unfortunate enough to come alphabetically between these two.”

“Last year we made shirts and campaign posters, like she was running for president.” Aramis grins. Athos wishes that he had the yearbook to show d’Artagnan, because the scene is really quite hilarious: Aramis is waving a sign and pointing right, towards Nancy’s perfectly normal headshot. On her other side Porthos is wearing a _DiLisi ’16_ shirt and giving a thumbs up.

“Year before that was the year with the octopus, right?”

“No, the year before that was when we had been shot by Cupid and were blowing her kisses--”

“Ohmigod,” d’Artagnan says, very quickly-- then sighs. “Oh. No. I’m right _before_ Aramis. Phew.”

“Still next to me, though, I assume,” Aramis says, thoughtfully. “Unless there are any more D-apostrophe’s hanging around that I don’t know about. I don’t think we can let an opportunity like that go to waste-- now if only this one weren’t all the way over the in the L’s--”

“You know, before Ellis Island, my family name was _de la Fère_ ,” Athos remarks. “We all would’ve been together.”

Aramis looks personally affronted that this is not the case.

That night Athos stares at his sweaters for a stupidly long time before choosing the one that his former students gave him for his birthday. At least he knows it won’t be a repeat. With so many years left to go, though, he really should start his own tradition: he has sweaters in every color… maybe starting next year he’ll wear them in rainbow order….

Athos gets to school at 7:30 on the dot. In the parking lot he passes the photographer’s van, and in Porthos’ room he finds Porthos and Aramis wearing black suits, white shirts, black ties, and dark sunglasses. Porthos has a Bluetooth in one ear; Aramis has a walkie-talkie.

“We’re Nancy’s secret service guys,” Aramis explains, and Porthos nods somberly.

“Coherent storytelling, this is. Since last year she was runnin’ for president. Guess she won.”

“Also, I like that sweater. It brings out the blue in your eyes,” Aramis remarks, with apparent approval.

“An’ the brown brings out the brown in your hair,” Porthos adds, with a smirk.

“Is d’Artagnan in this detail?” Athos asks, ignoring them. Aramis frowns.

“No. He said he didn’t want to _overstep_ onto _our thing_. So we’re going to do this”-- they strike their pose, Aramis glaring to his left, walkie-talkie to his mouth while Porthos presses his earpiece-- “and make it look like he’s the security threat.”

And d’Artagnan, who shows up minutes later wearing a pink dress shirt that awkwardly highlights his pink nose, looks very threatening indeed. In much the way that a four-month-old chocolate lab does when it’s rolling in a meadow of wildflowers.

*

At lunch Athos goes to the gym to get his picture done-- should’ve done it on prep, but the copier jammed again-- then goes to the faculty room to find Aramis. But Aramis isn’t there. This isn’t uncommon, but Athos is eager to hear about the photo shoot, so he wanders to Aramis’ classroom, and peers inside.

It’s immediately apparent why Aramis is skipping lunch. There’s a student Athos doesn’t recognize slumped, head in hands, in a chair; Aramis has taken his jacket and sunglasses off and is crouching next to her. There’s a tissue box beside him on the floor.

Aramis looks up and catches Athos’ eye; he nods, and Athos holds a hand up in apology before heading back to the lunch room. He doesn’t expect Aramis to join him. It’s a bit of a surprise, then, when Aramis drops into the chair across from his a few minutes later.

“Everything okay?”

Aramis nods. “One of my juniors, Katie Guerrero. Her boyfriend dumped her yesterday.”

“That names sounds familiar.”

“She came out as bi last week, in debate practice. I think I told you. And we were all really happy for her, right? Except apparently her boyfriend.”

“Shit,” Athos sighs.

“Mm. Classy, right?” Aramis sighs. “Did I ever tell you about Melanie Obenchain? My freshman year of college. She left me when she found out I was pan. She told me I needed Jesus. Which is my favorite flavor of hypocrisy, you know, because I think I go to church more in a month than she ever did in her whole life.”

It’s reasons much like this that being single forever sounds the most reasonable option. “She’s better off without him,” Athos adds, though he’s not really sure what else to say.

But Aramis can’t seem to stop thinking about it. “We need, like-- something. We need something in this school.”

“Textbooks, roach traps, desks with enough screws in the legs--”

“Support structures.”

“There’s a GSA?” Athos is pretty sure Aramis will be forever angry that the school GSA existed, and had an adviser, long before he ever arrived.

“Not just for queer kids. We need-- Athos, I don’t know how I’ve become this school’s agony aunt but I mean-- so many of them are going through shit, you know? It kind of breaks my heart. I’m not just talking about relationship stuff. I mean, goddamn, I’ve got kids with parents in jail, kids with parents deported back to their countries, kids with, like-- shit.”

“We have counselors.”

Aramis snorts. “And the students come crying to me because the counselors are just _so_ good at their jobs. No. We need something.”

Athos has watched his friend trod this path before: a flash of insight, a flurry of activity, and a club or school spirit activity that last two months at most. Only the debate team persists, and Athos mostly credits Porthos with this.

“You’re voluntarily going to start group therapy sessions for teenagers.”

Aramis tips his chair back onto two legs. “Maybe.”

*

Aramis’ idea mostly slips from Athos’ mind, especially since the next day is Friday and the weekend is marred by another snowstorm-- not enough to shut down school for Monday, but enough to guarantee an unrelaxing weekend. In fact he does not think of it until Wednesday, when he gets to school.

Aramis’ minivan is already there-- Athos actually considers the possibility that somebody else has bought the exact same minivan, but that would be about the only thing weirder than Aramis getting there so early-- so he stops by the man’s classroom first thing. Aramis is hunched over his desk, frowning at his computer screen. His tongue is between his teeth and what looks like a doomed paper snowflake is between his fingers.

“Hey,” Athos greets, and lets the question ask itself.

“So,” Aramis says, without looking up, “yesterday went horribly.”

“What?”

“Our rap session. It went horribly. But-- but-- I had this idea after about the first five minutes of awkward silence.”

“To actually have some structure in your support structure?” Athos suggests, remembering now.

“Yeah-- well, actually, yeah. We were all just staring at each other so I”-- he finally lifts his head now, looking triumphant-- “taught them how to make paper cranes. And it was stressful for the first few minutes but then everybody just _relaxed_.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They were so focused on how they were folding them that we just started chatting, no pressure, and nobody spilled their guts or anything, but it seemed to cheer them up.”

“Good job,” Athos says, with a genuine smile.

“Yeah. So now the only problem is that I only know, like, three origamis. Origami designs? I only know like three origami designs, and one of them is a cup. So now I’m trying to learn a frog.” He holds up the paper mess with a shrug. “I think I can milk the cranes another day or two, then the butterfly, before I actually have to do any new ones.”

For all that Aramis’ ideas are often stupid, they are-- or he is-- often stupidly charming, too. Hey, here’s a group of traumatized fourteen-to-eighteen-year-olds who feel like they’ve got nobody to talk to but their manbunned biology teacher-- let’s show them how to make paper cranes.

“That sounds interesting.”

“Want to come? Next meeting’s Friday. We’re going to try before school, so it doesn’t interfere with any sports. I think Porthos said he was going to.”

“Just remind me to make all my copies Thursday afternoon,” Athos replies, with a shrug.

Aramis doesn’t, but Athos remembers anyway. On Friday morning he wanders over to Aramis’ classroom, and is surprised to find it full of at least a dozen students, and not only Aramis and Porthos but d’Artagnan as well.

“Mister LaFere!” Nessie shrieks. Athos can’t help but smile at this, and he takes a seat between Nessie and d’Artagnan.

“All right, everybody,” Aramis begins, and they naturally come to order. (Aramis may be a bit of a pushover, but for all that he does not look very intimidating, he commands a room quite naturally.) “We’ll continue working on our cranes today. First, though, let’s share how we’re feeling this morning-- just one word will do. No, don’t groan, Alexis, nobody’s forcing you to be here. I’ll start. I’m very excited to see how word of this club is traveling, and excited to see some other faculty members joining in as well.”

“It’s only ‘cause they’re your friends,” somebody teases.

“Okay, well, I’m excited to see that my friends are here to support us,” Aramis replies, without hesitation, and there’s a little breeze of laughter.

Nobody spills their guts in the next three minutes. Answers consist mostly of _good_ and _tired_ and _glad today is Friday_ , except for d’Artagnan, who grins like he’s four years old and announces that he’s excited to make a paper crane.

Aramis passes around scissors and paper. He demonstrates the steps, once through, then lets the rest see to itself; those who remember from last week help those who don’t, and the newcomers, and soon everyone is folding away, chatting aimlessly while they do so.

D’Artagnan’s not talking. His face bears the concentration of a bomb expert remembering which color to cut next, and some of the kids are beginning to notice, and giggle-- though not unkindly. But the effort pays off. Slowly his paper folds, grows, stands-- becomes a lovely crane, crisp-lined and oddly elegant.

From the way d’Artagnan stares at it in surprise, it may as well have come to life.

“Cool,” he declares, to nobody in particular.

Athos has mostly been neglecting his own crane in favor of watching d’Artagnan and the kids, but now he turns back to it and begins to fold again. He must’ve learned how to do this at some other point. Pressed to, he couldn’t’ve remembered, but with his fingers on the paper he seems to know the next step without having to spy too much on d’Artagnan or Nessie.

“Did anybody ever read _Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes_?” one of the kids asks, raising her voice to address the whole group.

“My earliest memory of cryin’ in school,” Porthos replies, sheepishly. A few kids giggle and one shouts, “same here, DV!”

“If you had one wish,” one of the younger girls begins, “but you had to work _that_ hard for it, you know, you really had to make it count-- what would it be?”

This is the moment that Athos has been anticipating. The moment that somebody looks up, eyes almost meeting the camera but not quite, and says something along the lines of _real friends_ or _my mother back_ or _a time machine so I could choose (not) to have that abortion_ ….

“Speak any language I hear once,” somebody says.

“No, no superpowers-- that’s dumb.”

“Get into Villanova,” Nessie adds. “With a scholarship, too.”

“That dogs live as long as humans.”

“Isn’t that a superpower?”

 _Oh right_ , Athos thinks, a little dumbly, _they’re just kids_.

They’re still just kids.

*

On Monday there’s a cardboard box in the faculty room, next to the copier, with a handwritten note on the side requesting _SCRAP PAPER FOR ORIGAMI CLUB_. There’s already somebody’s toner-smeared worksheets tossed in. And when Athos peeks again at lunch there’s another few stacks, mostly white but one goldenrod and one pale pink.

The next morning’s meeting goes much the same way. Aramis asks everyone to begin by saying how they’re feeling, and the answers are mostly the same, with one variation.

“I’m kind of stressed,” Edgar admits. “‘ve got a pre-calc test today.” He glances sideways at Porthos, who makes a show of hiding his face, and everyone laughs.

Aramis passes around scissors and scrap paper. (Athos gets a piece of goldenrod paper, which turns out to be a chemistry quiz with the answer key copied onto the back. He smirks.)

Some students seem bored with the cranes, and Aramis gathers them-- and Porthos-- around himself, and shows them how to make an origami butterfly. Some, d’Artagnan and Athos included, make more cranes.

A few more meetings pass this way, and Athos finds himself looking forward to them. They’re relaxing, and even with the shared feelings at the beginning they aren’t overly emotional. The answers are mostly the same, anyway: on Tuesdays it’s _good_ and _tired_ and _wish today was Friday_ ; on Fridays it’s _good_ and _tired_ and _glad today is Friday._

Then a couple of Tuesdays in, a sophomore from the debate team hesitates on her turn.

“Um, I’m kind of sad,” she mumbles. “It’s dumb but, like, my cat died Sunday?”

“That’s not dumb, Sara,” Aramis soothes, and Sara nods rapidly, a few tears trickling down her cheeks. Aramis goes to her side and hugs her warmly. She sobs into his shoulder for a minute, then he pulls away and lets her friends take turns hugging her as well.

“Let’s make cats, DH,” somebody suggests, somberly. Aramis reluctantly admits that he has no idea how to do that, but by the end of the meeting Alexis has taken out his phone and found directions. As Sara leaves he hands her an origami cat, and she squeezes him tearfully.

*

The rest of winter drains away in piles of DBQ’s and forty-minute blocks of paper folding, which Athos comes to anticipate with an unexpected measure of cheer.

Then suddenly it’s March.

Athos looks at his calendar, and thinks of d’Artagnan-- not because thinking (worrying) about d’Artagnan has become somewhat of a habit, but for legitimate reasons this time. Two dates are highlighted in his mind in bright d’Artagnan colors:

March 15th is d’Artagnan’s birthday.

March 25th will be one year since his father died.

It’s time for a conference.

Athos jumps on the next possible opportunity, which goes something like this: it’s a Monday morning, and d’Artagnan heads off to the copier at just the same time as Aramis arrives. They’ll have at least ten minutes, just the three of them.

The problem, of course, is that Porthos and Aramis are literally incapable of not distracting each other; if they were his students he’d build seating charts around keeping them on opposite sides of the room.

Aramis shuffles in, drops into a student chair with a groan. He expertly maneuvers his leg up between his chest and the desk, and puts his head down on his knee. 

Porthos tilts his head. “Made muffins, but you look like you’ve got a stomachache.”

Aramis nods without raising his head. 

“They’re just banana,” Porthos says, regarding Aramis with a concern that’s quite undue, given how often Aramis’ stomach is upset. “Maybe it’d help settle things? Worth a try?”

“Mm,” Aramis sighs. He straightens up, slips his leg back under the desk, and accepts a muffin. Then he sets it on the desk and breaks off a careful piece. 

Athos clears his throat.

“Mm?” Porthos prompts, raising his head. “That’s your attention-getting cough.”

“I don’t have an attention-getting cough.”

“You do, an’ that’s it.”

“It’s d’Artagnan’s birthday next week.”

“Oh, shit! You’re right. What’s the plan?”

“Well, it’s a Tuesday, so I was thinking we could involve the origami club--”

“Feelin’ better?” Porthos asks. Athos looks over; Aramis has finished his first muffin and is currently straining to reach another without standing. Porthos hands him one. 

“Much better,” Aramis agrees, peeling off the paper. “Medicinal muffins.”

“Now that sounds like somethin’ else altogether,” Porthos teases, and a crumb falls out of Aramis’ mouth as he grins around a bite. “Okay. Sorry, Ath-- origami club. I like that idea.”

“I saw an origami birthday cake design,” Aramis offers, after swallowing. “It’s pretty complicated-- more than I think I could handle-- but I bet Alexis and Aziza would be up for working on it together.”

“Been fiddlin’ with this great breakfast recipe,” Porthos adds. “More bananas-- been on a banana kick. Pup loves ‘em.”

“I thought you made these muffins because _I_ love bananas.”

“I’m allowed to bake banana shit for both of you. You don’t look too put-upon.”

Athos looks again at Aramis, who is folding his muffin wrappers into triangles and smiling dopily. 

“Stop smiling,” Porthos orders, smiling himself.

“I feel better. I’m allowed to be happy about that.”

“What’d you eat last night?”

Aramis bites his lip and tries to look ashamed. “Indian. I couldn’t help it!”

“ _Aramis_.”

“Been in and out of the bathroom since two o’clock this morning,” Aramis continues; Porthos scowls in sympathy and Athos offers his thanks for the information. 

“Sorry for the overshare,” Aramis laughs. “Mm, I’m tired now. You know when you finally feel better and it makes you tired? Thanks, Porthos. Sweet and bland was just what I needed.”

“Sweet and bland,” Porthos agrees. “That’s me.”

For a split second Porthos seems a little less cheery about this than he should be; then Athos finally manages to steer them back to the topic at hand. They party plan for a little while longer. Then, with a few minutes left to the bell, Porthos sighs and spares Athos from bringing up the other matter.

“It’s also, um-- jus’ so we all remember-- it’s the anniversary, two Fridays from now, of his dad’s passing.”

Aramis puts his third muffin down, and goes respectfully quiet.

“He’ll be okay,” Porthos says, nodding firmly. “We’ve got ‘im.”

*

March 15th is a Tuesday.

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all arrive by 7:00am to prepare; before long the floor is covered with balloons, and the room smells like cinnamon thanks to Porthos’ massive breakfast casserole. The kids come early as well. Alexis and Aziza have folded a picture-perfect origami cake, made of crisply-folded pieces of pink and white paper. A few others have brought cards, mugs, or chocolate. The gifts form a cheery little pile on the top of Aramis’ bookshelf, and Nessie takes it upon herself to scrawl a giant _HAPPY BIRTHDAY_ on the whiteboard.

They don’t quite manage to organize a proper surprise. D’Artagnan is early, and everybody is still scattered around the room, bopping balloons or admiring breakfast; in fact Athos himself does not notice that the boy has arrived until there’s a startled _oh!_ from the doorway.

D’Artagnan stands motionless for a moment. The strap of his bag slides abruptly down his shoulder and he only just manages to catch it before the whole thing can fall to the floor.

“Surprise!” somebody shouts, followed by a chorus of _Happy Birthdays_.

In one swift sequence, d’Artagnan starts to laugh, then to shake, then to cry. He covers his face with his hands and stands there blubbering. “Oh my god. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s my birthday. You remembered-- you didn’t have to remember! You got balloons? Porthos, did you make-- oh my god. Holy crap! I didn’t know if anybody-- oh my god.” 

Porthos goes over and pulls him into a big bear hug; d’Artagnan leans against him, hands still over his face. 

“Sorry,” he sobs. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Oh, I just said fuck in front of the kids! Sorry!”

Half of the kids think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen; the other half leap up and dash over to hug d’Artagnan, who finally lowers his hands and pulls in as many of them as he can. Porthos, grinning, slips away.

D’Artagnan back to laughing-- mostly-- though the tears have already left their mark, puffing up his eyes, pinkening his nose. “Thanks, guys. Oh my god-- thanks, everyone-- oh. Thanks, Porthos,” he adds, when Porthos hands him a tissue. Smiling widely, sniffling loudly, he blots at his eyes and nose. “Wow. Caught me by surprise a little. Sorry I got a little-- um. Porthos, did you make cinnamon rolls?”

“I made,” Porthos replies, “a bananas foster cinnamon bun bake. With banana cream cheese frosting.”

“Holy shit,” d’Artagnan says, and the kids laugh again. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

They set about distributing breakfast. Porthos has made about fifty servings for about twenty people, and everyone happily gorges themselves. D’Artagnan, meanwhile, marvels at his origami cake. He also exclaims over each and every one of the gifts and cards, and tears up at least twice more before he finally gets himself fully under control.

“Thanks, guys,” he is saying, for about the hundredth time, when the first bell rings.

“Oh my god,” d’Artagnan laughs, putting his hands back over his eyes. “I still have to teach today, don’t I? I just cried like five times and ate like seven pieces of cinnamon bun and now I have to go teach about the battle of Fort Sumter. Hah!”

“Honestly, DA,” Daisy begins, “if you felt like putting on a movie-- you know, for your birthday--”

“Hey, how old are you?” Alexis interrupts. 

“Um, twenty-four,” d’Artagnan answers, reflexively, then goes red. “Sorry, twenty-nine. Dunno how _twenty-four_ came out.”

“Oh my god! He’s twenty-four!” somebody laughs, and then the comments begin.

“You’re the same age as my brother!”

“You’re _younger_ than my sister!”

“When you’re thirty-four, I’ll be twenty-seven! That’s, like, totally acceptable.”

“What’s his half-plus-seven?”

“Nineteen!”

“Look at you, doin’ math,” Porthos booms, and everybody laughs. “I have it on good authority that d’Artagnan here is forty-five an’ simply has an amazing moisturizin’ routine. Ain’t that right?”

“Right,” d’Artagnan agrees.

“Right. That was the bell, then. So scoot!”

The kids scatter, and Aramis takes the opportunity to give d’Artagnan a steadying hug. D’Artagnan clings to him, looking off-kilter but happy as a clam.

“Thanks, you guys,” he rasps, getting choked-up again. “Oh, shit-- oh my god, what an awesome birthday!”

*

March 25th is a Friday.

That morning Athos stands before the rack of sweaters in his closet and thinks, with odd clarity, that he should wear a very soft one, given the likelihood that he will hug d’Artagnan before the day is out. He selects the well-worn forest green, the one with slightly overlong sleeves.

A week and a half ago they’d celebrated, gotten the kids all involved and made themselves sick on cream cheese frosting and laughter.

Today, as far as he’s aware, only the four of them know the significance of the date.

At school, Athos goes to Aramis’ classroom and waits while the students trickle in; d’Artagnan arrives somewhere in the middle of the pack. Whatever Athos was expecting him to look like, he doesn’t. He looks like d’Artagnan, long-haired and olive-skinned, tall and young and sleepy, wearing a white dress shirt with grey trousers and a blue tie. He flops into a chair, cracks his neck, gets embarrassed by the volume of it. Then he strikes up a conversation with the student sitting beside him, as Porthos arrives and helps Aramis distribute supplies.

When everyone is sitting, Aramis calls them to order.

“Feelings,” he says; some groan, others laugh.

Athos hears nothing, not even his own answer, merely waiting for the circle to reach d’Artagnan. “I’m a little tired,” the boy admits, when it gets to him. And no, it’s not as though Athos was expecting him to announce in front of a room of students _it’s been a year today since my dad died_ ; still the stoicism hurts.

“It’s Friday, DA!” somebody encourages.

“Heck yeah,” d’Artagnan replies, flashing a smile. “I’m gonna sleep all weekend. Don’t expect anything graded.”

Everybody else in the club has committed to memory at least three designs, but d’Artagnan makes only cranes. Today is no exception. He sits, absentmindedly folding one after the other, all in the stark black-and-white of somebody else’s fucked up worksheets. He has about a dozen as the meeting comes to a close. With the same quick precision, he goes to the supply box, takes a long needle and a length of string, and fastens the cranes in a straight line, up through their bellies. Then he drags a chair to Aramis’ desk. His string of cranes joins the many others hanging from paperclip hooks in between the rectangles of crumbly ceiling tile.

The day passes, and they converge on d’Artagnan’s classroom sometime around 4:30. The lights are off, and for a moment Athos thinks the room is empty; but no, D’Artagnan’s sitting at his desk, staring blankly through a pile of papers he should be grading.

They let themselves in. Athos has every intention of playing it cool, coming around to the point eventually, but Porthos saunters over to a desk and plops down on it.

“You up for company tonight?” he asks.

D’Artagnan blinks. “Oh.” He glances at Athos, looking touched and also a little uncomfortable. “You remembered. I’m sorry, I know that shouldn’t surprise me-- not after last week.” He smiles, tiredly. “You do a good job with my important dates. Gold star.”

“If you’d prefer to be alone, we take no offense,” Athos assures him. “But if not, we could get dinner.”

“An’ if you’d rather somethin’ quiet, we can order a pizza at Athos’ house.”

Athos looks over at Porthos, who looks back at him and grins unashamedly.

“Sweetheart,” Aramis says quietly. He’s gone to d’Artagnan’s side, and is suddenly tender where the others are nonchalant. “Whatever feels best to you.”

D’Artagnan no longer looks uncomfortable so much as overwhelmed. “Tir Na Nog?” he huffs out. “Is that okay?”

Porthos laughs. “You’re a cheap date, pup.”

D’Artagnan shrugs. “I like having a-- place. ‘ve never had a place before.”

“Tell you what,” Aramis adds, “how about we all park at Athos’ and I’ll drive us from there?”

“Why does everybody just want to come to my house so badly?” Athos replies, but they all agree, and after giving d’Artagnan directions head out.

They regroup not ten minutes later, and pile themselves into Aramis’ minivan. Sitting in the backseat with d’Artagnan, Athos sees that the boy has removed his necktie, and put his hair into a ponytail with a blue rubber band. Like that day in the diner, he has the sudden sensation of d’Artagnan as his student. It’s not far from the truth, really, although at the moment he is only concerned with being his friend.

They migrate inside and get a booth in the back corner. (It’s a Friday night, at the most popular faculty hangout, and although d’Artagnan surely knows this he probably still would rather avoid seeing colleagues.)

D’Artagnan settles next to Porthos, and Aramis next to Athos and across from d’Artagnan. They order two plates of Irish nachos and a pitcher of beer, but once that’s done they find themselves just sort of-- sitting there. What’s there to say? _It’s an Irish wake_ , Athos thinks absently: an Irish wake for a Frenchman who died in California, and the only thing Irish about it is the nachos.

“Tony stuck a piece of celery in David’s ear today,” Porthos announces, apropos of nothing.

“Come again?” Aramis prompts.

“Tony. Smuggled a celery from lunch. Stuck it in David’s ear. During independent worktime, mind you.”

“What did David do?”

“He laughed so hard I thought he’d piss himself,” Porthos replies, with a shrug. “So I let it be. Just if you’d asked me ten years ago what seventeen-year-olds did in calc class, I’d’ve said calculus.”

“That is absolutely something I would have done in calc class,” Aramis reflects. “Hm. Let’s see. Oh, I dared to sit down for a minute, and Ashley came up behind me and tried to braid my hair.”

“It’s ‘cause she’s got a crush on you.”

“Plenty of people have crushes on me,” Aramis sighs. “They don’t all try to braid my hair.”

“I got observed,” d’Artagnan adds, suddenly. “Last period.”

Aramis’ brow crunches up in empathetic despair. “You got observed last period on a Friday? Wait, you know what, I don’t know why things like that surprise me anymore. How’d it go?”

“All right. That was my third, so I’m done, which is good. The kids were more out of it than they were crazy, but there were also some pretty decent moments in our discussion. But I still had, um, yesterday’s objective on the board.”

“I’ve done that,” Porthos agrees, pulling a face.

D’Artagnan smiles weakly. “It probably would’ve made me cry in September, but I’m not really beating myself up too badly now. It is what it is, y’know? I just wish they would’ve come yesterday-- I feel like nobody ever sees my really good lessons.”

“They know how to pick the worst days somehow,” Aramis agrees, mournfully-- then catches himself. “Fridays, I mean,” he adds.

D’Artagnan snorts. “No, it was a bad day for it; I won’t deny it. It’s okay, Aramis, stop looking like you kicked a puppy.”

The server arrives with their beer, then; Aramis recovers, and asks if he can get a plate of just celery. He’s told he’ll have to order wings. “Please do not order wings just so you can stick celery in my ear,” Porthos sighs, and Aramis relents with a pout.

“Anybody else got any good stories?” Porthos asks, pouring four pints of beer. “Was a slow day for me, the celery’s all I’ve got. Ath?”

Athos does have a good story, in fact, involving a vape pen and a junior who thought it was appropriate to use in history class. He tells it, and it gets Porthos on a tangent about an old student who often got high in the bathroom.

D’Artagnan, having spoken up once, doesn’t say much now. When the Irish nachos arrive, he eats a piece of plain potato, then rips his placemat into a square and begins the familiar pattern of folds.

A crane emerges steadily, one wingtip wet with beer. When d’Artagnan finishes he begins to rip a smaller square from the leftover paper, but he’s shaking too badly to manage. Aramis covers the boy’s hand with his own, tucking his fingertips under the palm.

“Let’s get some air,” he says, and d’Artagnan nods and lets himself be led away.

Porthos and Athos finish the pitcher and half of the next one before Aramis and d’Artagnan finally return. When they do, Aramis evicts Athos to the other side of the booth. D’Artagnan is puffy-eyed and pliant, and can’t seem to stop leaning heavily on Aramis-- little more than a cried-out kid in his big brother’s lap.

Porthos and Athos have also finished the Irish nachos, fueled by worry and general gluttony. When the server comes around Aramis orders himself an ice water and d’Artagnan a grilled cheese sandwich and a ginger ale. Porthos and Athos sit by supportively, finishing the beer.

Under Aramis’ watchful eye d’Artagnan eats most of his sandwich, then plucks his paper crane from the middle of the table and settles it like a flower amidst the pieces of crust on his plate. He sniffles again, and puts his head on Aramis’ shoulder.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Aramis soothes. “Home now.”

The rasp in d’Artagnan’s voice makes Athos realize that he hadn’t yet spoken since his return. “I really don’t want to be alone.”

Aramis kisses his temple. “Nobody said anything about that, Charlie.” He looks to Athos for quick confirmation and Athos nods: _of course_.

It’s a short ride. Aramis risks motion sickness to ride in the back with d’Artagnan as Porthos drives; by the time they pull to the curb in front of Athos’ house, he’s definitely a little pale. But nobody pays this any mind, Aramis himself included.

“Staying?” Athos prompts, as they pile out.

Porthos yawns. “Please. ‘m pooped.” It’s not even 7:30 yet, but nobody questions this.

“You do know I love cuddling in Athos’ guest room,” Aramis adds. Porthos grins. It’s not a grin of amusement or of sharing in a joke, but of genuine happiness, of man who’s just heard something that truly made his day.

“D’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan blinks up at him. “You don’t-- mind?”

“No.”

“Are--”

“Yes. I’m sure.” Athos replies, as he locates his keychain in his pocket, then the proper key on the keychain. “These gentlemen always take the guest room, but you can take my bed--”

“Oh my god! No!” D’Artagnan sounds more awake than he has all night. “No, that’s so embarrassing-- not having your bed, I mean, having it instead of you-- I’m happy on the couch, really, I’d be more comfortable on the couch!”

Athos shrugs and turns the lock. It occurs to him that d’Artagnan has never seen his house before and, despite the circumstances, he cannot stop himself from saying, “this is-- uh. My house.”

D’Artagnan smiles, eyes drooping again. “It smells nice,” he notes, calmer.

Athos has no idea what his house smells like, but Porthos laughs, and Aramis says, “it’s his laundry detergent. Cozy, right? Kind of lavendery.”

“An’ he puts lemon on _everything_ ,” Porthos adds.

“Also there’s probably some socks in the couch cushions,” Athos deadpans. “If nobody minds, I’m going to shower--?”

“Bathe,” Porthos says, with a dismissive gesture. “Wine?”

Athos gestures right back; Porthos knows where the wine is. Athos goes into his bedroom, into the bathroom off of it, and turns on the shower. Once naked, he stands under the hot water, feeling in-between. He’s not drunk, but not sober; needs a minute alone but is truly, deeply worried about d’Artagnan and sort of wants to never let him out of his sight again.

He finishes quickly.

Once dry, he changes into sweatpants and a greyish purple sweater, then rejoins them in the living room to find Porthos stretched out on the floor beside the couch and d’Artagnan half asleep on Aramis’ shoulder. Athos sits next to Porthos and turns on the news. He accepts a glass of wine (Porthos has put red in the white glasses, and should know better by now, but no matter.)

The world is falling apart, as it has been for thirty-eight years, at least. Still Athos dutifully watches the news to its conclusion, seeing it as, if nothing else, a noise to fill the silence. At some point his head ends up on Porthos’ shoulder.

He and d’Artagnan are both displaced, then, when Aramis stretches, sits up, and rouses Porthos. “D’Artagnan can’t get to bed until the rest of us do,” Aramis notes. “And it would seem that he’s ready. Shall we?”

“Yes _please_ ,” Porthos sighs. A pitcher of beer and two glasses of wine later, and he finally seems tipsy. “We haven’t cuddled since New Year’s, an’ on New Year’s you hadda keep rollin’ over to puke.”

Aramis sucks his teeth loudly. Then he climbs off the couch into Porthos’ lap and wraps his arms around Porthos’ neck. “You’re so warm,” he mumbles, about as tipsy as Porthos on only the wine. “God, sometimes I’m hugging you and I actually, legitimately never want to let go.”

Then his head jerks up, as though realizing what he’s said. “D’Artagnan,” he calls, playing it off, “come here. Hug pile. You know you want to.”

“I’m good,” d’Artagnan replies, fondly. “Go cuddle. Don’t let us stop you.”

Aramis and Porthos untangle and get to their feet then, nowhere near drunk enough to stumble but apparently drunk enough that Aramis feels comfortable linking his arm with Porthos’ as they disappear down the hall.

When they’re gone, Athos takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He picks up his wine glass, and Porthos’, while d’Artagnan takes his own and Aramis’ and trails Athos to the kitchen.

At the sink, the rinse the garnet reside from the glasses. It’s funny how natural it feels, having d’Artagnan in his kitchen on a Friday night, and Athos realizes he’s smiling. He sighs again.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” he asks, quietly. “Or would you like some Nyquil?” At d’Artagnan’s expression he falters. “Sorry. Ah, I’m being a wonderful mentor right now, I know.”

“It’s okay,” d’Artagnan replies, smiling back a little awkwardly. “And no, um, wine usually does the trick.”

He only had one glass, by Athos’ count, and he doesn’t look drunk-- but everyone’s affected differently, after all. Porthos, for example, gets giggly (and clingy). Aramis gets queasy (and clingy). Athos himself gets maybe a little chattier, a little happier, until suddenly he’s not anymore (and also he probably gets clingy as well).

“Okay,” Athos says.

He leads d’Artagnan back to the living room, shows him the hall bathroom and the closet with extra pillows and blankets, then all at once he has nothing else to say.

D’Artagnan seems to sense this. “Well, I’m all set,” he assures Athos, grabbing a pillow and a fuzzy yellow blanket. “Thanks again. If you’re going to bed, I’m going to too.”

“You don’t need anything else?”

“No. Really, I don’t. Goodnight, Athos.”

“Goodnight, d’Artagnan,” Athos murmurs.

*

Athos wakes around 2:30am, sober and with an upset stomach; for a second he assumes the worst, but then he remembers washing down an entire order of Irish nachos with a pitcher of beer, which is something that nobody should do, let alone somebody who’s closer to forty than thirty. Not sick, then, just stupid. Besides, he feels much better after exploding the toilet of the master bathroom and taking a nice, hot shower (a long one this time).

It’s nearly 3:00 when he’s finished toweling off and putting his pajamas back on. That’s only two hours from when his body tends to wake him up, weekday or weekend, but he’s tired enough that he thinks if he has a cup of peppermint tea he’ll be able to sleep a while longer without a problem. With this goal in mind he creeps from his bedroom and down to the kitchen.

It’s possible to get to the kitchen without going into the living room, but Athos feels the urge to peek in on d’Artagnan anyway; he’ll be sleeping, Athos is sure, but confirming this will put his mind at ease.

But d’Artagnan is awake. In the dim glow of the streetlights outside he is a creature of muted blues and oranges, stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, sitting on the couch with his knees up to his chest.

Athos makes a little noise as he approaches, but d’Artagnan startles anyway. His gaze has not been random, Athos realizes, but instead he’s been staring at something quite intently; now he blinks up at Athos, looking lost.

“Can’t sleep?” Athos prompts, quietly.

D’Artagnan shakes his head. Then he looks away again, goes back to staring at whatever he’s staring at-- the clock on the cable box, Athos comes to realize.

It reads 2:58. Soon it changes to 2:59, and d’Artagnan is still staring at it, and Athos at d’Artagnan, when the green digits flash to 3:00 a minute later.

D’Artagnan lets out a massive sigh and drops his head against his knees. “Sorry. Sort of just-- waiting. For the day to end. California time. Sorry.”

Athos perches on the couch beside him. “Would you like some tea? I was going to have some.”

D’Artagnan shakes his head.

“Coffee?”

“Um, actually, do you have, like, ibuprofen or something? I’ve kind of got a headache. Sorry. Shit, ‘m sorry, Mister LaFere.”

They still address each other in this way in front of students, as a professional courtesy, but it’s been a long time since d’Artagnan has called him that in private. The sound of it buzzes in Athos’ head as he goes to the bathroom and finds the Advil. He shakes a few into his hand, then fills a glass of water, and brings it all back to couch, still hearing the echo of the strange formality.

Perhaps this is why, when he perches beside the boy, it isn’t _d’Artagnan_ that comes out of his mouth.

“Charlie.”

D’Artagnan raises his head and sees the pills, but stares at them stupidly for a long moment before reaching out his hand for them. Athos puts them there. D’Artagnan pops them in his mouth, then accepts the water, drinking half before setting it carefully on a coaster. Athos squeezes his knee, and they sit in silence a little while.

“Why are you up?” d’Artagnan asks, finally.

Athos shrugs. “My stomach was a little off. Tir Na Nog does that, sometimes, just so you’re forewarned. But we go anyway. We’re teachers; we’re all masochists.”

“You aren’t the first to warn me. Um, if you’re feeling better, you really don’t have to stay up with me. Like, I appreciate it, but you don’t.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Weren’t you going to make tea?”

Athos had forgotten. Thinking that perhaps d’Artagnan wants a minute alone, he goes into the kitchen and gets out a mug (Perla Herrera, 2010) and puts enough water in the kettle for two cups, in case d’Artagnan changes his mind.

He’s staring at the clock again when Athos returns. The digits read 3:11.

Athos settles beside him on the couch, a bit more comfortably this time; d’Artagnan looks over at him for a second before looking away again.

“It’s been a year. It’s been a full year now.”

“ _Veux-tu me dire_ \--?” Athos begins, but stops when d’Artagnan flinches.

“I don’t-- I don’t want to speak French right now. Sorry. Please?”

“Of course.”

“I appreciate it but, like-- I dunno.” He rubs his temples.

“How’s your head?”

D’Artagnan shrugs.

There’s a long silence in which Athos merely drinks his tea.

“Did I ever tell you how he died?” d’Artagnan asks, at last, swiping at his eyes. Athos shakes his head. “Yeah. It’s kind of-- it’s a strange story, you know. I don’t like telling it, but I can’t-- I can’t stop thinking about it right now, so. Can I tell you?”

Athos puts his tea aside, lays a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Tell me.”

D’Artagnan forces a smile, then breathes deeply a couple of times. “He was shot,” he says, finally, and wipes his eyes again. “That’s so-- that’s so fucked up, right? It was-- we were, like, at a 7/11 and, um, it was getting held up. My dad-- he was one of those people, you know, he stepped in, tried to get everybody to calm down and-- they shot him. The guy shot him. It doesn’t seem real, right?” He laughs then, a little hysterically, and the tears spill down his cheeks.

 _We were--_ we _were--_

“Charlie,” Athos prompts. “You were there?”

“Mm-hm. I was in the bathroom. I heard the g-gunshot go off. And I-- we had only-- we had only stopped because I had to pee. Like, for fuck’s sake. We were only there because we had been driving a while and I needed to stop. Oh my god. Like-- fuck, you know?”

“That isn’t your--”

“I know it isn’t. I know it’s not my fault, Athos. Like, I’m sure I felt that way at first but I know I didn’t do anything wrong-- but you can cause something without it being your fault. You know? It isn’t my fault that he’s dead but if I-- if I had made this one little decision differently-- shit.”

He breaks off for a moment, biting his knuckle, catching his breath. Athos shifts a little closer.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” d’Artagnan whispers, pulling his hand away. “I can literally-- I can literally close my eyes and be back at the hospital. Like when you’re on a boat and you get off but can still feel the waves. But, like, so much has happened-- I also can’t believe it’s _only_ been a year. And _good_ things have happened, I mean. I got a job. And I met you guys. And Constance. It’s been, like, a really good year--” D’Artagnan’s voice cracks and shatters, the rest of his words coming in watery hiccups. “But it’s been, um, a _reeaally_ bad year, too, y’know?”

Athos breaks the barrier, pulls him in. D’Artagnan comes without hesitation, curling up with his head on Athos’ chest; Athos rubs his back and lets him cry.

He does so, noisily, for a good long while. His weeping is like a child’s, ugly and unapologetic; his belly hitches against Athos’ own in violent spasms. He whimpers for his father, his mother, Athos. He grips Athos’ collar, squirms weakly against him; the front of Athos’ shirt grows steadily damper.

Finally d’Artagnan catches his breath. He sits back and scrubs the mess from his face; a lock of hair has come free from its rubber band and without really meaning to, Athos reaches out and tucks it behind d’Artagnan’s ear.

D’Artagnan regards him oddly, then, after a moment, laughs. “All we need is Porthos,” he burbles, sounding congested. “I could be three for three. Oh shit, I need to blow my nose.”

He tumbles gracelessly off the couch then disappears down the hallway; when he returns a minute later, his face has been washed and he sounds much less stuffy. The rubber band is out of his hair, around his wrist instead.

“Can I get you anything?” Athos asks, laying a hand on his back when he sits on the couch again.

“Nah.”

“Tea? Chamomile?”

D’Artagnan seems to think about this.

“Let me,” Athos says, quietly.

D’Artagnan clears his throat, swallows hard. “Do you have, um, like ginger tea or something? I’m kind of-- that kind of--”

“Of course,” Athos soothes, before he has to elaborate. “Do you think a piece of toast might help too?”

D’Artagnan ponders this a moment before nodding shyly.

Athos pats his back and goes into the kitchen; the water in the kettle is still pretty hot, so it takes only a minute to get the cup together. He toasts piece of white bread as well. He thinks about leaving it dry, but in the end scrapes on a tiny bit of butter; d’Artagnan is upset, after all, not actually sick, and butter in Athos’ mind equates to a worthwhile comfort.

When he brings it back to the living room, d’Artagnan looks at him like he’s handing him the elixir of life. He _beams_ \-- slowly, wearily, with puffy eyes and quivery lips-- but beams nevertheless, and carefully takes the mug (Alyssa Perez, 2006) and plate.

Athos retrieves his own tea, which has cooled a little but is not unpalatable. He sips it quietly while d’Artagnan tears a piece off the toast, eats it, then takes a few good pulls of tea. Athos doesn’t know if it settles his stomach, but it certainly seems to loosen his congestion. Before long he snuffles his way back to the bathroom; there’s a long moment of one nose-blow after another, then he returns, flops onto the couch, and sighs.

“How’s your stomach?” Athos prompts, quietly.

“Fine. Better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Do you think you’d like to try to sleep now?”

D’Artagnan nods. Athos plucks the blanket from the floor and hands it over; looks on as d’Artagnan raises the footrest, tucks the blanket carefully under his toes, and pulls it up as far as it will go. When this is finished, he lays back and shuts his eyes. His hands work the blanket for a moment before beginning a repetitive finger tap, and Athos watches the boy soothe himself with a mix of sympathy and admiration.

Before long his fingers slow and stop.

By using the footrest he only takes up one couch cushion, which Athos sees as an invitation-- or possibly request-- to stay while he falls asleep.

So Athos obliges.

*

Athos wakes up again around 8:15, startled for a moment to find himself on the couch. Then he remembers, looks to his right. D’Artagnan is fast asleep still, blanket thrown to the floor again, hair an inky spill over his face.

They probably fell asleep around 4:00, he reasons. That’s a little over four hours for d’Artagnan, which isn’t enough, but it’s better than nothing. Another hour or so would be nice, though. So Athos keeps as quiet as he can while he gets to his feet, wanders down the hallway to his bedroom, goes into the master bath, and goes about his morning routine.

When he returns he realizes Porthos and Aramis are awake and in the kitchen. The smell of coffee is wonderful, and Athos pours himself a mug (Bryan Pascal, 2012) before flopping down at the table, wondering at what point last night Aramis filched a pair of his pajamas. Porthos is still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“You slept with the pup?” Porthos whispers, as Athos buries himself in his coffee.

“Hm. Can we rephrase that, please?”

“You slept _next_ to the pup. How is he?”

Athos shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. He got pretty upset for a while.”

Aramis’ mouth pulls into a frown and he glances in the direction of the living room, though he can’t see into it from his angle. “I thought he was gonna cry himself sick when we went and sat out in the car last night. Shit, it’s not fucking fair.”

They all regard each other helplessly. At last Porthos stands. “Got bacon, Athos?”

“Mm-hm.”

“‘m gonna make him bacon pancakes.”

Porthos’ bacon pancakes are legendary. They’re brown sugar pancakes with crumbles of crispy bacon mixed right into the batter, all topped with browned butter glaze; they are the top item on Aramis’ much discussed Foods Worth Indigestion list. Athos agrees-- they’re _so_ _fucking_ _good_.

Porthos gets out Athos’ best cast iron and sets about cooking the whole pack of bacon; when it’s burnt to his satisfaction he crumbles it up, sets it aside, and starts to make the batter. Athos and Aramis watch him fondly.

They’re so mesmerized that they all startle when d’Artagnan sits down at the table.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Aramis says, recovering smoothly. “You could’ve slept more.”

“Nah. Lately I feel kind of weird if I sleep past nine or so.”

“That’s another teacher badge,” Porthos replies, from over at the stove.

Athos has gotten a mug of coffee (Brittany Davis, 2004) sets it in front of d’Artagnan, who attacks it with sugar. “What’re you making?” he asks, taking a sip before adding more sugar.

Porthos opens his mouth to reply, but Aramis cuts him off.

“Just you wait. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Mm. ‘kay.” He heaves himself up and disappears, returning a minute later, just as Porthos is beginning to plate the pancakes. Aramis puts his hand over d’Artagnan’s eyes as he tries to sneak a peek. When he lets go, d’Artagnan crosses his arms on the table and puts his head down on them, then stays like this, unmoving, while Porthos finishes cooking, takes the little pot of simmering glaze and pours it over each plate.

He lifts his head when Porthos sets the pancakes down. “Holy shit,” he mumbles, blinking at the food like he can’t quite get his eyes to focus on it. “Porthos, that looks amazing.”

“My own recipe,” Porthos replies, and Aramis adds, as though this were in question, “it really is.”

D’Artagnan regards them all with a kind of fond, sleepy awe. They dig into their pancakes and eat in silence-- not an uncomfortable silence but a reverential one, because _brown sugar bacon pancakes._

“Holy shit,” d’Artagnan says again, when they’re done. “That was amazing. Um, everybody-- thanks, you know? And Athos, just tell me when I’ve overstayed my welcome, please. I know we’ve all got stuff to do today.”

Athos does not respond to the overstayed welcome comment. Instead he prompts, “is your grading in your car?”

“Mm. Yeah.”

“Then get it. We’ll put in a movie and keep each other on task.”

A laugh startles out of d’Artagnan’s mouth. “Like college?”

Aramis sniffs. “Did he just call us old? Did he just imply that people over twenty-four do not watch movies?”

“No, I--!”

“He’s teasin’ you,” Porthos tells him, gently.

D’Artagnan closes his mouth, and smiles. “Right. Um, Athos, would you mind if I showered? If that’s okay?”

It hurts a little, Athos thinks, how very fervently d’Artagnan always expects to be rejected at every turn; it doesn’t sit well on his shoulders, doesn’t seem to go with the rest of what Athos knows about him. And yet it’s nearly constant. Rather than speak to this, though, Athos just gets d’Artagnan a towel and more Advil, and gives him the standard intro lecture on how to use the finicky hot and cold knobs. D’Artagnan ducks out to his car for his school bag and gym bag. He showers, then joins them in the living room dressed in running shorts and a concert t-shirt that, much to the amusement of everyone else, turns out to be for Jason Mraz.

“I just washed them,” d’Artagnan promises, looking a little put out. “Like, I haven’t worn them since the last time I washed them.”

“I wore these clothes to school yesterday,” Porthos assures him, while Aramis opts for honesty and says instead, “we’re laughing at your Jason Mraz. It’s not because you smell.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Aramis,” Athos cuts in, “you are wearing my pajamas. So shut up.”

“Athos,” Aramis shoots back, “you are also wearing your pajamas. So-- your point?”

Just for that, Athos goes into his bedroom and changes into old olive corduroys, and that one grey sweater that is _ridiculously_ comfortable but has developed an armpit hole too big to wear it to school. He returns to find that Porthos has put on _The Fellowship of the Ring_. They settle then, and manage to grade without distracting each other too much for an hour or so.

Then Aramis ends up on Facebook. This leads to Porthos ending up on Facebook, and Athos gets huffy and threatens to kick them all out, which leads to d’Artagnan’s eyes drooping with such miserable disappointment that Aramis crawls over and gives him a hug. From there it’s not too far a leap to d’Artagnan falling asleep on Aramis’ shoulder. This makes everybody happy, because Athos and Porthos go right on grading, Aramis goes right on leaving his until Sunday night-- as usual-- and d’Artagnan gets a nap.

An hour or so passes. They’re past the Council of Elrond, at any rate, when d’Artagnan wakes up and inhales sharply. But doesn’t pull away as Athos is expecting. Instead he surrenders easily under Aramis’ hand, melting back against Aramis’ chest with a stuffy sigh.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Aramis soothes. “You were pooped. We let you sleep. You didn’t miss much: Frodo’s volunteered to take the ring to Mordor, and Porthos has a sixteen-year-old who can’t properly multiply decimals.”

“D’n’t think I can prop’rly multiply d’cimals,” d’Artagnan slurs, and buries his face in Aramis’ chest. Aramis strokes through his hair, expertly avoiding the tangles.

For a little while Aramis just holds him. Then at last d’Artagnan’s head pops up, eyes blinking away the blur of sleep, and he groans. “See? Slept past nine. Now ‘m groggy.”

“Coffee’s fresh,” Porthos mumbles absently, halfway through a truly nasty-looking problem and seeming unable to raise his head at the moment.

Athos pushes to his feet.

“Oh my god,” d’Artagnan yelps, awake now, “please don’t get me coffee, Athos, I can get myself coffee!”

“Oh my god,” Porthos echoes, “please get me coffee, Athos, because I’m about to not be my best self on Katheryn’s paper--”

“So give it to her,” Aramis sighs, leaning back against the couch, dragging d’Artagnan with him. “If she’s anything in pre-calc like she is in bio, she needs a kick in the ass.”

“Not sure a kick in the ass will actually make up for, y’know, ten years of fallin’ further behind each year.”

“What is, at this point?”

Porthos grimaces, and shrinks in on himself a little; on the paper, the tip of his pen goes still.

D’Artagnan’s hair moves a little with Aramis’ sigh. “I’m sorry, Porthos. I know shit like that bothers you, and I fucking say it anyway. I’m sorry.”

“No, just, you know-- none of you went to a school like this. It’s a different perspective, is all. Sorry, pup,” he adds, glancing up. “That’s me makin’ an assumption.”

“No, it’s okay,” d’Artagnan replies, a little awkwardly. “I went to public school but it was, like, a pretty middle class district. My family was well-enough-off.”

“Well, I went to a school like this one. _Schools_ like this one, because we bounced around wherever Mom found rent the cheapest.”

Athos regards Porthos, then d’Artagnan, wondering if he feels properly privileged to be hearing this. He and Porthos had known each other over a year already, and Porthos had been pretty damn drunk, the first time he’d spoken so candidly on his childhood.

“’til eighth or ninth grade, I was more like Katheryn than I wasn’t. It was hard, y’know, fightin’ against this assumption comin’ from everyone that you were gonna drop out at sixteen an’ sell weed or work at Burger King. Then I got lucky, had a couple of teachers all in the same year who proved that they didn’t believe that about me. So, you’re not wrong, Ar: she might need a kick. Just, y’know-- a loving one? One that includes a decent amount of tutoring hours.”

Without warning, d’Artagnan lurches out of Aramis’ hold, picks his way on hands and knees across the field of student papers, and wraps his arms around Porthos’ neck. Porthos startles a moment before hugging him back, tightly.

Aramis and Athos leave them to it, going into the kitchen to get them all coffee; when they come back Porthos is grading with an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. D’Artagnan is marking the score down in Porthos’ gradebook whenever he finishes a paper. He’s fully awake now, and by all accounts appears to be his calm, amiable self-- if still a bit needy, for as Athos and Aramis return he turns his head and nuzzles into the crook of Porthos’ arm.

“Careful,” Aramis warns. “How’s the air quality today?” He sets down Porthos’ coffee and yanks Porthos’ free arm up, pen and all, to sniff-test the armpit. “Yesterday’s lecture must’ve been intense,” he teases, and Porthos groans.

“Sorry all you skinny bastards’ve got no clothes to share with a fattie like me.”

“I have a large t-shirt from last time I gave blood,” Athos offers.

Porthos huffs. “Large. That’s cute. Mm. ‘m gonna finish this stack and head home.”

Athos glances at the clock; it’s almost noon.

“Porthos,” Aramis wheedles, “I was just teasing you--”

“I’m not offended--”

“--you always smell nice, actually--”

“--I don’t like sittin’ around in school clothes, either--”

“--mm, you haven’t showered, and there’s that stomach thing going around--”

“--should follow his lead, keep a bag in my car--”

“--it’s a gym bag, you gonna go to the gym?”

“--there you go teasin’ me again.”

“I like teasing you,” Aramis says. “Your nose crinkles.”

“Coffee,” Athos reminds them, handing d’Artagnan a mug of what is at least half sugar. D’Artagnan sips it and nods in approval. Athos sits on the couch with his own mug and a pile of essays, and enjoys the peaceful company.

About the time that Boromir tries to take the ring, Porthos puts his pen down. He gathers his papers into a pile, slips the pile into his briefcase, and pushes to his feet, knees cracking. “Okay,” he huffs. “That’s me out, then.”

“You aren’t going to stay for the rest of the movie?” Athos prompts.

“What’s comin’ in ten minutes?”

Athos smirks, realizing. “Boromir’s going to die.”

“An’ I’m gonna--”

“Weep like a beaten child,” Athos allows. “I’m amazed you made it through The Fall.”

“I focused on the math,” Porthos shrugs. “Which is how I generally manage not to cry, if I don’t feel like it. All right. Everybody enjoy their Saturday nights and Sundays, and I’ll see you all Monday.”

“Bye, Porthos,” d’Artagnan calls, settling back against the couch; Aramis and Athos echo him in turn.

Aramis leaves next. The movie has ended, by this point, and Athos is done his grading; the coffee is finished, and he and d’Artagnan have ended up on the couch beside one another. Aramis kisses them both goodbye, d’Artagnan’s forehead and Athos’ cheek; then it’s just them.

D’Artagnan stretches his legs out in front of himself and rolls his ankles. They crack quietly. Not twelve hours ago he sobbed his heart out into Athos’ shoulder, on this very couch, and it’s hard not to think of this, at least for Athos. He wonders if he should mention it, ask how he’s doing.

But apparently the same thing is on d’Artagnan’s mind, because after a minute or two of silence he leans back, looks up at Athos, then looks away again. “Thanks,” he says, almost pouting. “For last night. You know.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” Athos replies, shifting a little.

“But I did.” All at once there are warm, lanky arms around his waist, and he startles a moment before hugging d’Artagnan back.

“I suppose you did.”

“I don’t know how I’d manage living alone,” d’Artagnan muses, pulling away and regarding the room. “I mean, my roommates are basically strangers but still-- just the idea that if I like, developed a spontaneous allergy to peanuts or something and was going into anaphylactic shock there’d be somebody there to call 911.”

“I’ve-- never thought of that, but now I will next time I eat peanut butter. So thank you.”

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan replies, with a laugh. “It’s quiet, I guess. Quiet’s good. Your house is cool. You don’t garden, do you?”

Athos shakes his head.

“You’ve got great light for a vegetable patch in the back, to the righthand side. Saw it out the kitchen window. Sorry, shit you notice as a farmer’s kid. If you ever want help starting one, just let me know.”

“I will,” Athos promises.

“Okay. Um, I think I’ll head out too, then. Let you get on with your day. Thanks again for letting me crash here. I’ll see you Monday, yeah?”

“See you Monday,” Athos agrees, as d’Artagnan collects his school bag and gym bag. They say goodbye once more when Athos opens the door for him.

With only one soul in it now, the house seems big and quiet-- and Athos is pretty sure it isn’t just the lingering fear of sudden peanut allergies. No, there’s a word for this, a very simple word.

He’s lonely-- that’s all.

Athos collects the coffee mugs, deems the dishwasher full enough to start, and then goes back into the living room and puts on _Two Towers_.

*

The feeling doesn’t really go away. Even on Monday, even back with his friends and surrounded by his students-- even on Tuesday, at the origami club that has become a bright spot in his grey weeks-- he can’t shake it. It pulls at his feet, his ankles, his knees, like quicksand. The week drags at one-quarter speed but, then again, why is he so eager for the weekend? So eager for sixty hours of complete silence, complete solitude?

On Friday morning he feels as indifferent as he has all week, puts on his coziest sweater to try to cheer himself up but just ends up overheated. He tries to think of a word, for how he’s feeling. It’s all a fucking jumble in his head, though, because it’s more than lonely and more than upset but he’s too tired to be properly _sad_. And it doesn’t really matter anyway because what the hell is he going to say in front of students besides _good_.

_Fine._

_Glad it’s Friday._

He doesn’t remember what he says. Doesn’t care because he’s sitting next to Sara, and when Sara’s turn comes she goes a little pale and takes a deep breath, steeling herself for something.

“I’m,” she begins. “I’m-- I don’t know.”

Aramis sits forward. “Is something wrong, sweetheart?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong. That’s why I feel so-- I just-- I’m sad, I guess, but I don’t really have a good reason. And I feel kind of stupid, and I feel stupid saying it, but I feel sad and, like, really tired, all the time, and I feel like-- if you gave me the choice between doing my favorite thing and lying in bed I’d lie in bed.”

She gasps. Athos has never climbed Mount Everest but he’s pretty sure this is how somebody’s face looks when they finally reach base camp-- realize how far they’ve come, how far they have left to go.

Athos doesn’t notice anyone’s reaction. He barely even notices when Aramis pulls her quietly into the hall and they stay outside for twenty minutes or more. Really, he doesn’t notice much for the rest of the day.

There’s a hum in his chest like two notes harmonizing, resonating, like a soul rising to meet another soul, but it doesn’t feel good. It fucking hurts. And in that moment, in the middle of the strange disconnectedness Athos is aware of a single idea:

 _I think I may be more than_ mildly _depressed._

How he makes it through the rest of the day he doesn’t know. When the clock hits 3:15 he gets in his car, drives home, showers, and puts on pajamas. Then he goes into the living room. He turns on the TV, then mutes it, then gets a blanket and lies down on the couch facing away from the screen.

The cushions don’t absorb the tears, only smear them itchily all over his cheeks. He pulls the blanket over his face and this is where he stays, bathroom and cereal breaks excepted, until his alarm goes off Monday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Veux-tu me dire...?_ \-- Do you want to tell me...?
> 
> Can't believe there's only one chapter left! I'm still working on a few parts of it, but it will definitely be posted before June 1, as that's the deadline for inclusion in the TYFtWD masterlist :)
> 
> Also please check out Azile_Teacup's Mathsy Porthos artwork. I have not a single clue how to link in a note, but it's infinitely more than worth the few seconds it will take you to locate :P


	4. Fourth Marking Period

5:45am, and Athos’ alarm goes off from somewhere within the pile of cushions and blankets. Frankly he’s mystified it’s still got any charge. He roots for it and eventually unearths it, silencing the infernal chimes.

It’s not as though this weekend was any good. Still, given the choice Athos is pretty sure he’d stay hidden inside of it for the rest of his life.

It’s very nearly 8:00 when he pulls into school. Through some latent survival instinct that has not yet withered away, his feet take him to Porthos’ classroom, where all three of his friends are sitting. They look up when he enters.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan begins, frowning, as Porthos says, “thought you might’ve called out”.

“No,” Athos replies, hearing his voice for the first time since Friday. “I didn’t, but-- I think I’m sick.”

Aramis comes over and feels his forehead. “Well, you don’t have a fever,” he declares. “Are you nauseous at all? There’s a stomach thing going around.”

“I just think I’m sick.”

Aramis frowns in confusion, though it’s maybe the most truthful thing Athos has ever said. Athos bites his cheek. He’s frustrated at his inability to articulate the problem, frustrated at his friends’ inability to just reach into his head and pick out what’s wrong.

But d’Artagnan actually looks _worried_ now, and so he shakes himself. “Slept like shit. Fuck April,” he says, sounding clearer, and everybody else relaxes a little.

“Ibuprofen?” Aramis offers. “Tums?”

“Anything in your pharmacy that would make it June already?”

Aramis laughs, and Athos sinks into a chair and tries to calm his racing heart.

It helps, being in Porthos’ classroom instead of his own. He loves Porthos’ classroom; out of all of theirs, it is the neatest and best kept, brightened by a vase of pretty-damn-realistic fake flowers, and student projects from previous years. Athos’ favorite is the _papier_ - _mâché_ Mobius strip that hangs by the board. _The Mobius Mobile_ , Porthos calls it; _people think the trick is, it’s only got one side. That ain’t a trick; havin’ one side’s easy. Trick is makin’ two when you’ve really only got one-- bein’ more, holdin’ it all together, when really you’re all just twisted ‘round. But that twist, that’s what_ makes _the difference, ‘tween everything and nothing…_

Porthos uses math the right way, Athos thinks, absently. He grabs it with both hands and curls it all around himself in gorgeous abstract spirals, and sees the beauty in something that only shows dullness to the rest of the world. Porthos brings out the best in things. In his presence, and the presence of Aramis and d’Artagnan too, Athos feels his body finally settle.

It’s tempting, in a weird way, to believe that his friends don’t care. It’s also impossible, not only because of this feeling but because d’Artagnan comes by on his prep to hypothetically borrow a pen (no points for subtly), and Aramis tests his temperature again at lunch before complimenting his sweater.

In fact the only one who doesn’t look in on him, oddly, is Porthos himself. It seems to be coming, when Porthos stops by his room after school, but even then it doesn’t.

Instead Porthos gives him what he really needs: somebody else’s problem to focus on.

“Hey,” Porthos says, cracking the door. “You busy?”

Athos is not sure that Porthos has ever uttered those words to him, at least not in that order, and he frowns and beckons the man inside. “What’s up?” he murmurs.

Porthos shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t have anything with him, so he’s not dropping by on his way out of the building; rather he’s come to visit Athos specifically. Athos can tell at once, though, that he isn’t here to check in. Besides the shifting, he is fidgety-handed and a little grey.

“Ath, um-- I needa talk to you. Everything’s okay but I needa tell you something.”

“Ready when you are,” Athos promises. Porthos drags the little computer chair over next to Athos’ desk and plops into it.

“It’s about Aramis,” he begins, still working his hands together.

“Aramis?”

“Mm.”

“What about him?”

“Guess,” Porthos says, and smiles weakly. “No, really, ‘m curious how obvious I’m bein’.”

“You have feelings for him,” Athos replies, without hesitation.

“So, really obvious then.”

“Maybe a little,” Athos admits. “I’ve known for a while. The question is when _you_ worked it out.”

“I dunno.” Porthos jams his hands in his pockets and shrinks in on himself, so that his beard and bow tie squish together. “The pup was askin’ me about it, an’ it made me think, I guess.”

“D’Artagnan was actually pressing somebody about something?”

Porthos takes a deep breath, belly rising with it. “He’s head over heels for that waitress, y’know. Yeah, I guess we were talkin’ about that, then we started talkin’ about me. Ath, I don’t wanna put you in a weird place. I don’t want you to feel like you’re takin’ sides or anythin’.”

Athos reaches over and puts a hand on Porthos’ elbow. “Porthos, it’s all right. Come on. It’ll feel good to say it.”

“I think I’m in love with him,” Porthos rasps. “Goddamn scrawny little gorgeous Chilean motherfucker. I’m sorry. This must be really weird for you to hear.”

“It’s not. So what’s the problem?”

Porthos looks at Athos the way his students do when he asks a review question from six months ago. “What do you mean what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem? You adore one another. You’re both single, and you’re both bisexual.”

Porthos pulls a face.

“Or he is, and you’re gay?” Athos says, hoping he sounds nonchalant. “That still should work, shouldn’t it?”

“I’m asexual.” Porthos’ face goes blank. “Ace. I don’t like sex. Not to mention, you know, I could have my own tank at Sea World.”

It takes Athos a minute to work out what Porthos means by that, and when he does, his heart might break a little. Porthos cares about his weight. Athos knows this, but at the same time, never thought he _really_ cared about it.

“Porthos,” he murmurs. 

“‘m not much of a catch,” Porthos concludes. “An’ Aramis is a goddamn male model, an’ he’s so-- so kind an’ so thoughtful an’ _interesting_ an’ I’m sure he’s amazin’ in bed, whatever the hell that means--”

“I wouldn’t know,” Athos admits. 

“About Aramis? I’d hope not.”

“About what it means for somebody to be good in bed.”

Porthos blinks at him. “Are you--?”

“You know, I’ve never used a word for it. But I like it: _asexual_. Porthos, if you’re not a catch then neither am I.”

“But you’re still--”

“What?”

“Um. Handsome.” Porthos wrinkles his nose, looks at the floor.

“Handsome?”

“You are. You didn’t know that?”

Athos feels himself going red. 

“Sorry. I’m makin’ this weird. It’s just, if I were good-looking, I don’t think I’d be so scared. But maybe he’ll think I just don’t want sex because I’m so huge an’ that’s just kind of pathetic-- but maybe it’s true, an’ I just don’t realize it--”

“No, I just-- no. Porthos, you’re--” he struggles to articulate. “You’re--”

“Literally a whale,” Porthos says, and falls silent. A wave of nausea slams into Athos as he realizes that there are tears in Porthos’ eyes. 

Porthos sees that he sees, and flings an arm over his face. “Oh my god,” he moans, pitching forward. “High school hormones-- they’re catchin’!”

If d’Artagnan were here he’d know what to say, Athos thinks, absently. Something along the lines of _oh my god Porthos no you’re like amazing and adorable and literally brilliant and your dimples could be on a magazine cover-- and you make the best cookies and give the best hugs and I fucking love your belly because it like jiggles when you laugh and you love to laugh you’re like always laughing--_

Athos opens his mouth but none of this comes out. _Nothing_ comes out. Porthos wipes his eyes and shakes his head, heaving an earthquakey sigh. “Fat man cryin’. Nothin’ worse. Sorry, Athos. I’d, um, I’d appreciate it if-- we keep this just us. Well, us an’ the pup. So everybody but Aramis, I guess. Oh, _fuck_ \--”

Athos lurches out of his seat, then, and does for Porthos what he’s been wanting somebody to do for him for days now: he throws his arms around him and hugs him tightly. Porthos startles. Athos is not precisely known for his ebullient displays of affection, after all. But slowly he relaxes, sniffles into Athos’ shirtfront.

“Stupid bastard made me cry,” he burbles.

“You made yourself cry,” Athos scolds. “You haven’t given him the chance to do anything yet.”

“He’s gonna.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

Porthos pulls away, wiping his eyes again. “Ath-- there’s only two ways this ends.”

“Oh really.”

“Scenario one is I just never tell ‘im. Status quo. Scenario two is I fess up, an’ that’s the end of it. I thought I could live with the status quo. I didn’t think I had to tell him, but-- I do.”

“You genuinely see no scenario in which he jumps into your arms and you’re married by next school year?”

Porthos glares. There is actual anger behind it, and Athos sinks back into his seat. He does not, however, relent. “If you had no hope whatsoever, you wouldn’t tell him,” he reasons, quietly. “By even considering it, you’re admitting the hope is there.”

“I dunno about that,” Porthos confesses. “I dunno if I’ve got hope or if it’s just, like-- a song that gets stuck in your head, you know? Like you don’t realize it at first but once you do you’ve got no choice but to hum it. If I don’t tell him I think I’ll go crazy. Athos. Athos, I-- I’m gonna tell him.”

“Okay,” Athos replies, calmly. “When?”

“I was thinkin’ Friday?” Porthos sniffs again, then gives up and goes to actually get a tissue. “’cause, like, spring break, right? So if it goes to shit I don’t have to see him for a week.”

“And if it goes well you can spend the whole week cuddling.”

Porthos finishes blowing his nose and smiles a little at the thought of this. “Yeah. Yeah, makes sense either way. All right. _Spill my guts_ : I’ll put it in my Flexi for Friday afternoon.”

*

On Friday morning Porthos looks awful. He looks so awful that the kids pester him about it, then stop pestering him long enough to make him a bouquet of origami flowers. Aramis pesters him about it, too. Athos-- and d’Artagnan, who seems to be in the know as well-- pat his back discreetly whenever they happen to walk by.

Athos wants to see it as an overreaction. But then he remembers putting himself out there-- perhaps the one and only time he ever really did-- and suddenly he feels a little sick as well. God, he just hopes it goes well. Porthos deserves happiness more than the rest of them combined.

It hasn’t quite been a good week, depression-wise. Monday night Athos didn’t fall asleep until almost three in the morning; Tuesday he went to bed at 8:00pm and still slept through his alarm. Wednesday and Thursday were similarly dysfunctional. But all of this has been put on the back burner, and Porthos’ revelation has been placed squarely in front.

And now it’s Friday.

Sometimes, Athos genuinely blocks out the seven and a half hours he spends between before-school and after-school-- like the teaching part of his teacher life doesn’t actually happen. Today is not one of those days. There’s an evacuation drill third period; somebody starts a very convincing rumor that it isn’t a drill, and Athos ends up with a junior in mild hysterics. To top it all off, three kids don’t return with the rest. After a futile ten minutes spend sending his most responsible students to check bathrooms and stairwells, he’s finally forced to call the security guard, who finds the boys smoking and eating takeout beneath the bleachers of the freshmen/sophomore gym.

And this is all without mention of how he had a test scheduled third period. When the chaos ends, there’s fifteen minutes left; not enough time for a test, but certainly enough time for anarchy when the kids realize that Athos has nothing for them to do-- and no choice but to postpone their test until after break.

Days before break are always the worst.

By the time last period ends Athos is exhausted, too tired even to be pleased that he’s about to have a week off. Still, though, his mind is on Porthos. He’d tried, but failed, to catch sight of the man during the evacuation; with any luck, though, he has confessed his undying love for Aramis and the two are canoodling happily right now. (He is not yet so bitter as to begrudge his friends their happiness.)

But Porthos is, apparently, not off canoodling with Aramis-- or even with Aramis at all-- because at barely 3:20 there’s a knock at Athos’ door. Porthos slips in, closes it carefully behind him.

“Hey,” Athos says, stomach sinking low.

“Hey.”

“Did you-- just come from Aramis?”

“No,” Porthos rasps. “Oh, fuck, I couldn’t wait. I told him right after origami club. I thought Charlie would’ve told you by now.”

Athos shakes his head, mute with fear. “And?” he croaks.

Porthos shrugs, and the shrug says it all. “Not how he sees me, I guess. I dunno. There was a lot to say, an’ we were tryin’ to do it all in the five minutes before homeroom, an’-- I can’t even remember everything we said, but, I mean, I got the gist of it. An’ the gist was _no_.”

He isn’t crying but he’s shaking, hard, when Athos touches a hand to his elbow. Porthos closes his eyes for a second and sucks in a breath. Then he swings his hands together and claps once, awkwardly. “Do you wanna-- um, I was thinking I could make us dinner tonight? An’ you could always crash with me, if it got too late?”

Athos feels himself straighten. “Yeah. Of course. But you don’t have to bribe me with dinner--”

“No, I _want_ to cook. This isn’t-- this isn’t some, _come over so I can cry on your shoulder_ thing. I’m all right. I am.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. I mean, I’m sure sometime in the next few days I’m gonna, like, end up cryin’ in the shower so hard I puke or somethin’-- no, Ath, that wasn’t-- that wasn’t--” he laughs, as Athos frowns and swoops him into a bear hug. “That wasn’t passive-aggressive whatever. I really am okay. But I could use the company. An’ don’t think,” he adds, squeezing back, “that I can’t see how you’re feelin’ too. No, it’s okay. We’ve always been a match set, I get that. You weren’t the one who fucked that up but now you’re scared, too. It’s okay. Come on, I think we _both_ could use the company.”

It’s difficult to argue with a single aspect of this. So Athos swings by his apartment for a pair of pajamas, his toothbrush, and a bottle of wine. At Porthos’ apartment, he showers. Then he lies through his teeth that he’s forgotten a pajama top (having left it strategically crammed under the seat in his car), so that Porthos waves him at his t-shirt drawer and lets him at it. Athos finds a heather grey XXL from the time they had a fieldtrip to _Les Miserables_ on Broadway. He shrugs into it, sighing as the soft, worn fabric sags gently around his body, and all at once feels stupidly safe.

“Les Mis!” Porthos cries, when Athos joins him in the kitchen. Athos rubs the silkscreen image of Cossette across his chest and smiles.

“ _On my own_ ,” Porthos begins, “ _pretending he’s besi-ide me_ \-- no, I’m kiddin’, Athos. Stop frownin’; your face’ll freeze that way.”

Porthos makes chicken with an apricot-plum sauce over brown rice. Though it’s delicious, Athos finds he can hardly finish it; it may be spring, but he’d’ve preferred something like soup, heavy and creamy and warm. He’d expected something like that, too. Knowing Porthos he’d expected beef and butter and _starch_ , followed by something custardy and/or chocolatey. But comfort food is not on the menu tonight.

Porthos, in fact, is remarkably composed, and after dinner they do the dishes, watch the news, then watch _Law and Order_. Not once does Porthos give himself away. Not once does he tear up or sniffle or even cling-- though he does remove himself to bed exceptionally early, leaving Athos with most of the wine and a cursory gesture meaning _you know where the spare bedroom is_.

Alone on Porthos’ couch, Athos’ back burner boils over. He wraps up in an afghan and pours himself another glass; in his chest, his heart feels unsettling active, his mind unusually aware of its presence.

Things are kind of fucked up, now. Porthos had said it but it hadn’t really worked its way into Athos’ brain that one of his closest friends just confessed their love for-- and was rejected by-- another one of his closest friends. For months now he’s been horribly, illogically lonely.

Now he’s actually going to be alone.

Athos feels unaccountably cold, and realizes eventually that he’s got goosebumps standing palely at attention along both arms. Even the wine does nothing to warm him. Some small part of him knows it isn’t cold in Porthos’ apartment. Really, though, it doesn’t matter. He _feels_ cold, can’t stop shivering, can’t make his muscles untense, and he sits on the couch, in the dark, with his knees pulled up to his chest.

It might be midnight, or possibly 4:00am, when he hears footsteps behind him. Whatever time it is, it’s been long enough for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and he sees Porthos’ hand, extending in front of him. He takes it. Porthos pulls him to his feet and leads him down the hall, hand on his waist, and this isn’t how it should be, it shouldn’t be Porthos who’s comforting him, but when they get to the side of the bed Athos can’t make himself care. He burrows under the blankets like his life depends on it. Porthos crawls in from the opposite side and pulls Athos into his arms, letting him bury himself against Porthos’ chest. Athos shivers there, almost violently.

Then, faster than he’d’ve expected, Porthos’ warmth leeches into him and he stills, going limp; cradled in Porthos’ arms, Athos falls asleep.

*

Athos wakes up warm, submerged in a sea of blankets, with somebody else’s steady breathing not too far away. He glances around. Porthos is tucked up beside him, face squished into his pillow, sleeping peacefully.

Athos closes his eyes and dozes.

When he wakes up the second time, Porthos is sitting in bed beside him; it makes him feel small, like a child, and rather than sitting up he just rolls onto his back and looks up at his friend.

“Mornin’,” Porthos whispers.

“Good morning.”

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Mm-hm. Did you?”

“Yeah.” Porthos grabs a pillow from where it’s been tossed to the foot of the bed-- Porthos sleeps in a _pile_ of soft things-- and holds it protectively against his chest and belly. “Thanks for-- keeping me company last night. I’m maybe not as okay as I thought I was.”

Athos frowns slightly as he absorbs this new information. “I didn’t--”

“Huh?”

“Porthos, you came and got me last night because _you_ wanted me to sleep in here?”

“Well-- yeah.”

“I thought you got me because you knew _I_ was-- oh, we’re brilliant.”

“You thought I got you because _you_ needed it?” Porthos breathes a sigh of what might be relief. “We are brilliant, aren’t we? Athos-- you’re my best friend. Did you know that?”

“No,” Athos says honestly, then replies-- just as honestly: “same here.”

“Do you think that, you know, in a very asexual, best friend kind of way… that we could maybe just kind of stay here for a while? If it doesn’t bother you.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Athos promises. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Athos uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and washes his face; then he crawls gratefully back into bed and waits while Porthos takes his turn. When Porthos comes back, their eyes meet, and they smile, a little awkwardly. Then Porthos slips under the blankets with a quiet _c’mere_ , and Athos fits into the spoon of Porthos’ body, and it isn’t awkward anymore, not even a little. They lay this way a while. Porthos’ arm grows heavier as he drifts back to sleep, and Athos closes his eyes and breathes slowly.

This is new to him. Being in bed with somebody else always seemed reserved for sex, or sex-related things, and the thought of it has always pretty much scared him to death. But with Porthos it’s different. With Porthos there is no uncertainty, no fear, and none of the near-magnetic repulsion of another body getting too close to his own. There is only safety and peace.

He has needed this, _badly_.

When Porthos wakes up again, they turn on the TV across the room from Porthos’ bed, and find _The Matrix_ on one of the movie channels. Porthos props himself up on an extra pillow to watch. Athos hesitates only a moment before laying his head on Porthos’ chest instead, but it makes him kind of queasy to watch the movie sideways, so he closes his eyes. Porthos’ chest is warm beneath his cheek, the fabric of his t-shirt soft. It should probably scare him, the sound of somebody else’s heart beating, but it doesn’t.

“Ice cream for lunch,” Porthos declares, when the movie ends. He slides out of bed and returns with two pints of Ben and Jerry’s and two spoons, and Athos claims the Chubby Hubby, leaving Porthos with the Karamel Sutra.

Athos basically inhales his. Then he sprawls on his back and pokes idly at his belly, small inside the big borrowed t-shirt but a little squishy nevertheless.

Porthos watches for a minute. Then he rests his hand over Athos’, palm smoothing and stilling his bent and wiggling fingers, and Athos grins despite himself.

The grin fades quickly. “Do you think Aramis would-- you know. Do you think he’d be more into me if I was thinner? Honestly, Athos.”

“Honestly, no,” Athos replies, praying he’s right. Porthos bites his lip.

“Do you remember when he kissed me, at New Year’s?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

Porthos takes his hand away, thinks a moment, then lies down and puts his head on Athos’ chest. “Is this okay?” he mumbles. “Am I hurting you?”

“Jesus, Porthos, you aren’t-- you-- you’re not hurting me, Porthos. I’m not as fragile as I look.”

“I know.”

“So put your head down all the way, please,” Athos orders, politely.

Porthos does. And yeah, he’s a little heavy, but it’s a soothing weight, and Athos cuddles him close. There’s a blissful sigh. Then comes the feeling of Porthos’ warm fingers, wriggling between his own, and he accepts the familiar hand into his grasp.

“Let’s never move,” Porthos whispers. “Okay?”

“I’m about twenty minutes away from needing to pee,” Athos replies, squeezing Porthos’ hand. “Maybe twenty-five, if you shift off my bladder.”

“Are we gonna be friends when we’re eighty?” Porthos blurts.

 _I’m not going to be alive when you’re eighty_ , Athos thinks, automatically. _I’m not going to be alive when_ I’m _eighty._ But the thought of still knowing Porthos decades from now is maybe the first time he’s gaped up at the future with anything other than existential dread.

“Yes.”

That single syllable makes Porthos sigh again, and squirm happily against Athos’ chest, and apparently being called somebody’s _best friend_ wasn’t enough, because this is the moment that Athos finally realizes Porthos actually _likes_ him. Porthos actually likes being around him. Porthos, who is one of the kindest, brightest, funniest people Athos has ever met, actually enjoys his presence, and Athos cranes his head down and smacks a kiss on Porthos’ forehead.

“I love you too,” Porthos says. “You’re just about the only thing in my life that ain’t fucked.”

“You’re being dramatic. Nothing’s fucked but Aramis. And our school district. And your childhood, I guess. And I’m not _not_ fucked.”

“I know. I do know that you’re fucked, Ath, I just don’t always know what to do to help you. But I guess what I mean is, you an’ I, as a pair, we’re not fucked. An’ I appreciate that.”

“I don’t know why I’m fucked,” Athos murmurs, stroking a thumb over the back of Porthos’ hand. “I don’t know why and I don’t know when it started, either.”

“An’ shit with me an’ Aramis ain’t helpin’. I know.”

“No, but this is helping.” It’s shocking, the amount to which this admission does not mortify him. “This-- you know.”

“Cuddling?”

Okay, that embarrasses him, but just a little. “Yes,” he mumbles, feeling himself go pink.

“Go pee,” Porthos orders, “because I wanna fall asleep again.” He moves, and Athos reluctantly lets go of his hand, shimmies out from under him, and goes to pee.

It occurs to him, while he’s out of bed, that it actually is a bit cold in Porthos’ apartment-- even when he’s not halfway to some sort of weird breakdown.

“Porthos,” he says, when he returns, “do you always keep your AC set this high?”

“No.” Porthos looks sheepish. “It’s just-- too warm to really burrow, you know? And sometimes you just want to. ‘snot very green, I know; I don’t do it often, promise.”

Green or not, though, Athos sees the appeal. His arms are goosebumpy again and the floor is sucking the heat from his toes; when he crawls back into bed, it feels all the cozier for it.

He and Porthos lie down again. This time neither holds the other; instead they position themselves to actually sleep, not touching but comfortably close. Athos has never napped easily in his life. And yet as he closes his eyes he knows, without a doubt, that he will drift off quickly and sleep peacefully, with Porthos at his side.

It’s after 5:00pm when they wake up. Athos drags himself out of bed, though he knows that Porthos would not protest him spending tonight together as well. Be that as it may, he does have chores to do back home. He’s been neglecting both the dishes and the laundry, and making a grocery list, though he’ll do the shopping Monday, when the store’s less crowded.

And he needs a bit of time by himself. Though Porthos hardly counts as company, he still counts a little, and Athos knows from a lifetime of experience that he’ll be irritable as hell by tomorrow if he doesn’t sit alone for a while. He’s not sure this quite makes sense, given recent days. But perhaps company is like cheesecake-- wonderful, arguably necessary, but still something on which one can be overloaded.

Porthos hugs him goodbye for a long, long time.

When Athos gets home he puts in a load of laundry before he can even sit down, tossing his borrowed t-shirt in with the rest. He does the dishes, sweeps the floors, and makes his grocery list. He orders a pizza-- an uncommon indulgence-- and watches _Amelie_ , then still has enough energy to put away the laundry before bed.

He puts Porthos’ shirt on a kitchen chair to be returned after break. Then, after brushing his teeth, just before crawling into bed, he goes back to the kitchen for it, swaps it with the plain pajama top he’s wearing, and hugs the fabric against himself as he falls asleep.

*

Athos doesn’t see Porthos again that week, though they text daily. He doesn’t see d’Artagnan or Aramis, either, as d’Artagnan is (finally) visiting California, and Aramis-- well. He just doesn’t know if he _should_ see Aramis, right now.

He’s not a total shut-in, though; on Tuesday morning he gets a text from Treville, asking if he’s free for dinner. He accepts, surprised but still grateful. They agree on a steakhouse halfway between them-- the captain, like Porthos, lives a good deal north of school-- and at around seven that night Athos finds himself sitting across the table from his principal, glad of the company.

They order appetizers and shoot the shit for a little while. Treville asks about d’Artagnan’s progress, then sounds off about some of the district politics that Athos, as much as he hates, is also apparently _insightful_ about. The appetizers come, then, and Treville thanks him for his thoughts.

“Your name’s not on the VP door, I know. But you help me get my head straighter in twenty minutes than Cordet ever could. Not that he’s bad-- you’re just better.”

Athos’ fork stops just short of the spinach dip, and he sighs. “John--”

“No need to _John_ me, Athos. I can take _no_ for an answer, despite what you may think.”

“Just takes you a few years to come ‘round to it.” Athos shovels a mound of dip onto his plate and takes a few pieces of toasted bread.

“The district will lose out if you stay in the classroom your whole life,” Treville replies, meeting Athos’ eyes. “But the kids will lose out if you leave. In any case. None of that is why I thought we should get dinner.”

“No?”

“No. You might-- hell, I don’t quite know how to say this. Athos, I’m worried about you. Are you all right?”

Athos pauses again, bread halfway into the mountain of dip. “How do you mean?”

“You look like shit,” Treville says, simply. “Nearly as bad as-- well. In all honesty you’ve got me worried. Is there anything going on?”

Athos lets go of the bread, puts his hands in his lap, finds this too secretive, and instead crosses his arms on the table. “How old were you for your midlife crisis?”

“Thirty-six,” Treville replies, without hesitation. “I got a calf tattoo and went on a singles cruise.”

“You have a calf tattoo?”

“Are _you_ having a midlife crisis?”

“I’m-- hung up on the tattoo.”

“Athos,” Treville says, firmly. “We’ve known each other a damn long time. Yes?”

“Which is why I’m baffled that I never knew--”

“ _Athos_.”

“John.”

“If you aren’t ready to talk about it, then don’t.” Treville’s tone is blunt, but not unkind. “If you don’t want to talk about it at all with me, then don’t. I just-- don’t want you to think that nobody’s noticing. How run-down you are. How much less-- spark you’ve got. Whenever you’d like to talk, I’ll be there to listen. And if not me, then Porthos. Aramis. Hell, d’Artagnan. He seems to’ve rushed your little fraternity quite gleefully. Eat your spinach dip, eh? Stop looking at me like I’ve got two heads.”

Athos blinks, looks away, eats a bite of dip-covered bread, then takes a sip of water. “How was the cruise?” he asks, finally.

“Miserable,” Treville snaps. “Seasick the whole damn time.”

“What’s your tattoo of?”

“Is that our waitress?” Treville asks, opening his menu.

*

Pulling into the parking lot Monday morning, Athos does feel a little better. He’s slept; he’s cleaned his house, which always cheers him up; and he’s forced himself to go for a short walk every day to enjoy the cool April sunshine. He’s hardly _well_ , and he knows it. But if the very worst of this is to come in cycles then he will enjoy the days in which the very worst is not upon him.

School is not a refuge, though. Within ten minutes of his friends’ arrival he can see that Porthos and Aramis are on eggshells with one another-- not to mention that state testing is barreling down upon them.

D’Artagnan looks better, though. He’s even tanner than he was before spring break; and this is not the only physical mark his trip has left on him. He looks _well_. Looks _happy_. For the first time Athos thinks he might be meeting, instead of the son of a murdered father, the real Charles d’Artagnan-- sociable and excitable and just a little wild. Suddenly his monologues are full of names Athos doesn’t recognize. He’s texting constantly, laughing at messages from his friends back home; he’s vocally determined to marry Constance someday, despite the fact that they’ve never even dated.

He’s also finally speaking that French he promised. Not to any meaningful end, really, but rather to casually glance up at Athos and drop little gems like _encule mardi_ and _première période étaient morceaux de merde aujourd'hui_ and _la cafétéria sent les oignons et les couilles d'un kangourou mort._ He speaks quickly, and with total nonchalance. Thus nobody else thinks to ask for translations, and Athos feels a sort of giddiness, as though they’ve gotten away with something big.

On Friday afternoon, Athos sits down with d’Artagnan to go over testing regs one last time. They make sure that d’Artagnan can log into the test admin’s website, and that all the students he’ll be responsible for are there. They drag his desks into testing position. Then Athos sharpens all the pencils and yells, without heat, at d’Artagnan, who has waited until the very last minute to cover all the posters on his wall and is now scrambling to do so.

“Is testing as boring as it seems?” d’Artagnan asks, flopping into his desk chair and powering down his laptop.

“Let’s just say, if there are any massive philosophical quandaries you’ve been meaning to ponder-- now’s your chance.”

“Aramis says he does, like, calisthenics down the rows.”

It occurs to Athos, suddenly, how much he misses Aramis; they still have lunch together, but thinking on it now, Athos realizes how little they’ve actually spoken since school reopened. He hasn’t gone to origami club all week. Neither has Porthos, according to d’Artagnan. “That doesn’t surprise me,” Athos replies, when he realizes that he hasn’t yet. “One year I counted the ceiling tiles. I suppose it looked odd, though, because a student asked me if I was praying for them.”

D’Artagnan laughs. He stretches enormously, then gathers his things together and stands. “Happy hour?”

He should say yes, Athos knows; should be social for these last few hours of the week, knowing he’ll do nothing but sit around his house all weekend.

“Not today,” he says, instead. “Save your drink money for next Friday-- end-of-testing happy hour is the biggest of the year.”

D’Artagnan agrees, and laughs again. He and Athos walk to the parking lot together, where d’Artagnan runs into two of the other young teachers and invites them instead.

*

5:45am Monday, and Athos hauls himself upright with a grunt. He’s got a cold-- not a terrible one, but bad enough that the draining of his sinuses is palpable as his head changes elevation. He shuffles to the bathroom. A nice steamy shower helps the congestion, a little, but still all he’d really like to do is crawl back into bed. He cannot. He’s already pushed his morning alarm as far back as it can reasonably go, and he can’t dick around today, because today they start state testing.

Fuck.

State testing, much like a head cold, is something that does not actually change alter the course of one’s life for the worse-- but he doesn’t _want_ it, damn it. The kids are miserable in the mornings, wild in the afternoons. They seem to be under the impression that they should not have to sit through hours of class after sitting through hours of testing-- and Athos can’t say he blames them.

Still, it’s out of their hands, and his.

Athos puts on trousers, a sweater, and sneakers; Treville got in trouble a few years back for letting them have full-on casual dress days during testing, but is still adamant they should be allowed comfortable footwear. He loads his pockets with cough drops and tissues and heads out.

At school, things are chaos, as expected; schedules and preps have been blown to hell, and Athos collects his testing material and mentally steels himself as best as he can.

The students shuffle in, sullen and far from excited. Athos passes out pencils and laptops, sends the kids one row at a time to the bathroom, and collects everybody’s cell phones (which they are never supposed to have, technically, but this is the week to enforce it in full.) When the clock hits 9:15am, the announcement comes to begin.

Athos reads his assigned script, which guides the kids through logging into the computerized test. That’s all he needs to do-- the rest is just patrolling. He paces the aisles, hyper-aware of the order in which his heels spin at the end of every row. Right first, left follows. He needs to blow his nose quite badly but it’s deathly silent in the room, so he snuffles along instead-- which probably amounts to much more noise, overall, than a single blast would have.

He does do a good job, thanks very much, of not thinking too hard, amidst all the silence. It would be all too easy to fall into the trap of despair, contemplating all manner of hurts and fears-- instead Athos challenges himself to list the countries and capitals by continent, then allows him to fantasize about what the perfect meal would consist of.

A counselor knocks on the door, asks if he needs to use the bathroom. He says yes, just for a change of scenery, ambles down the hall, and realizes that at least he has a chance to blow his nose, now.

When he returns he nods to the counselor, who leaves. Then he resumes pacing for the remainder of the test, and occupies himself with counting up just how many students he has taught over the years.

It’s been over a thousand, easily.

Holy hell.

This is mostly how the week goes. On Wednesday there is a minor chaos in which Athos realizes the laptops have not been charged overnight, and testing becomes a two-hour struggle to keep the kids on computers that work. When one laptop dies he plugs it in immediately and switches it for another. The kids sitting close enough to the charging cart are plugged into it like some weird Matrix-like contraption, and Athos is secretly glad for all those who rush and finish early because each means one less kid who needs a laptop.

But that is the only real excitement.

After lunch on Friday he puts on a movie of vague academic merit, passes out cookies and juice boxes, and sits at his desk watching the movie along with the kids, until the last bell rings. He leaves at 3:15, heads straight for Tir Na Nog. The place is overrun with teachers, celebrating their victory for another year running, and Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan end up staying until nearly ten at night, letting off steam and doing the shots with many colleagues that they run into.

When they’re finally ready to go, Porthos is the only one good to drive. He ferries them all back to Athos’ house, where d’Artagnan immediately collapses on the sofa and Athos takes an extremely cursory shower and crawls into bed with his hair still dripping wet.

Before he can fall asleep, though, there’s a knock on the door.

Too fucking drunk for proper etiquette, Athos merely grunts that the door’s _not fucking locked, Porthos_ , and makes no effort whatsoever to take up less of the bed when Porthos comes cautiously in and lies down beside him.

“’m sorry Aramis’s not here for you t’cuddle with,” Athos blurts, without hesitation. Porthos chuckles quietly.

“’sokay. I was gonna drag the pup into the guest room with me but he’s out cold. Hey, I’ve been lookin’ for that shirt.”

Athos raises his head just enough to see his own chest and, yes, he’s wearing Porthos’ Les Mis shirt. Never quite got around to returning it, and it’s his favorite sleep shirt now.

“It’s soft,” Athos tells him, “’n’ it feels like it’s hugging me.”

Porthos laughs again. “You are _beyond_ drunk. Go to sleep.”

Athos turns over then, ignoring the roil in his stomach as he does so, and rests his (still wet) head on Porthos’ chest. He feels sturdy, there, and the room spins a little less.

“Fuck Aramis,” Athos says, and he’s sure he’ll feel shitty about that in the morning but he doesn’t now.

“That’s the problem,” Porthos sighs. “I don’t want to.”

*

Athos does feel bad in the morning-- and not just because he’s so hungover he spends his entire shower wondering whether or not he should make himself throw up. He feels bad because of what he said about Aramis. Aramis who, by all accounts, has been his friend as long as Porthos has been; Aramis who is a thoughtful, loyal, kind-hearted man, who does not deserve a single iota of ire for the simple fact that he does not look at Porthos the way Porthos looks at him.

Athos does not have any bacon in the house. Porthos fries them all eggs instead; d’Artagnan eats four and seems instantly better, while Athos chokes down one and wishes enviously for his twentysomething stamina back.

Thank you, thirty-eight.

When he’s pretty sure he won’t actually be sick-- which does take a little while-- Porthos drives them all back to Tir Na Nog so Athos and d’Artagnan can collect their cars.

He has every intention of texting Aramis the minute he gets home. His hangover, though, combined with a shitty night’s sleep, forces him to nap through most of the afternoon, and by the time he feels coherent enough to deal with the situation, it seems too late.

He is determined, though, to not let Sunday pass him by in the same way. As soon as he deems it late enough, he gets his phone and texts Aramis:

_Breakfast and/or lunch?_

It takes a while for Aramis to reply-- nearly three hours. But when he finally does his message is hardly indecisive.

_god yes_

_lunch at this point, i guess lol_

_was just getting in the shower, give me half an hour_

Half an hour is a bit optimistic for Aramis to be showered and ready, so Athos suggests meeting in an hour, at a diner he knows they’re both fond of. Aramis agrees. Soon Athos is at the diner, requesting a booth and sitting in it facing the door; Aramis is a little late. When he arrives Athos waves him over, and Aramis smiles tiredly.

Aramis orders a ginger ale and a club sandwich without bacon or mayonnaise; he also pops a few Tums before their food arrives. Athos doesn’t comment. They’re silent for a while, but in that silence Athos remembers just how familiar he actually is with this man, how much he values his friendship and would mourn the loss of it.

The food comes. Aramis picks apart his sandwich like the surgeon he never became; eats the turkey, then the cheese, then the tomatoes. He saves the bread for last. Then he eats a couple of fries before he stops suddenly short, and pushes his plate away.

“How’s Porthos?” he asks, quietly.

Athos gets the ketchup and squirts a pool of it next to Aramis’ abandoned fries. “He’s all right.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He eats a few fries. “How are you?”

“Confused,” Aramis sighs, which isn’t exactly the response that Athos was expecting. “That should have been-- Athos, that should have been the happiest moment of my life. Porthos is-- well, you know him. You know how much I care about him. It’s absurd, that we shouldn’t live happily ever after.”

The nasty little worm that’s been wriggling in Athos’ belly for weeks now finally bites hard enough to bleed.

“Is it because he’s-- bigger?”

“No!” Aramis yelps, head shooting up. “Holy shit, Athos, I can’t-- I’m actually really upset you’d even think that! I-- no.” He collects himself a little. “It isn’t because he’s fat, Ath. You know I think he’s adorable. Beyond adorable. He’s-- _gorgeous_ , and _soft_ , and his _smile_ is-- mm.”

“Then why?”

“You know, just because two people get along doesn’t mean they can be in love.”

“You two more than just get along.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Why?”

“Do you know that he’s--” Aramis begins, then cuts himself off. “Has he talked to you about-- of course he has.”

“Talked to me about?”

“Athos, I can’t-- I can’t not have sex. Right? Could you?”

“Easily,” Athos drawls. “Been at it thirty-eight years.”

Aramis processes this for a moment, then glares. “I’m surrounded. Do you have any idea how weird that makes me feel?”

“Yes,” Athos snaps, feeling his temper really working loose now. “But in reverse.”

“So call me shallow. But if you don’t understand then don’t tell me what I should do!” Aramis’ head sinks into his hands. “It’s not as if I didn’t want to say yes. I hardly wanted to lie to him, but I hardly wanted to lose him. Hardly wanted to lose you or Charlie, either, but I think we see who won the custody battle there.”

That stings, and it’s meant to. Athos takes a deep breath, forces himself to calm.

“You haven’t lost me, Aramis,” Athos says, quietly. “You have every right to think that you did, and every right to call me out on it, but you haven’t. You have my word.”

Aramis deflates, once again sadder than he is angry, and begins tearing a napkin to shreds. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I put in for a transfer.”

“What?”

“I put in for a transfer,” Aramis repeats.

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“No. It isn’t. I-- I go through the doors every morning and all I can think about is how much Lincoln used to feel like home to me. Now I-- now it just doesn’t anymore.”

“You need to think more about this,” Athos orders. There’s less than two dozen schools in the city, and Aramis isn’t certified for any grade below 5th; still, when the whole universe is a building, anything outside that building seems distant, unreachable. 

“They’ve already accepted,” Aramis admits. “East Side middle needs a new science teacher. They’re phasing in a more biology-heavy curriculum, and they said they’d love my input. Hey, don’t-- don’t look at me like that. It’s the other side of the city, not the other side of the world.”

“Just caught me off-guard,” Athos manages, finally.

“I know. Hey, can we get dessert? I mean, fuck it, right? Testing’s over and I broke my best friend’s heart and there was this Snickers cake in the display that looked _incredible_.”

Athos is not about to argue.

Aramis orders his Snickers cake with two scoops of chocolate ice cream, and Athos orders the coconut cake with vanilla. As soon as the cakes arrive, they devour them, along with two cups each of coffee. When they’re finishes Aramis pushes his plate away with a noise that manages to sound both satisfied and utterly exhausted.

A few minutes later they’re standing in the parking lot. Aramis has found a spot for his minivan just next to Athos’ car, and instead of making to leave he leans his back against Athos’ passenger door. Athos leans beside him.

Silence descends between them once again, and in the emptiness of it Athos realizes, for the hundredth time in the last half hour, that he and Aramis will not be working together next year. He pushes this down. Aramis looks the gloomiest that he has all lunch, which is saying something, and Athos is determined to be a better friend to him than he’s been of late.

“Hey,” Athos says, and Aramis looks up, expectantly. It’s the look that Athos hates the most, and all of his friends have done it at one point or another: the _Athos-will-fix-everything_ look. The hope behind it breaks his heart.

“Hey,” he says again, a bit more quietly, and slings an arm around Aramis’ shoulders. Aramis slumps against him. “It’ll be okay,” Athos murmurs, because he’s not really sure _how_ it will be okay, but it’s got to be. “Come over. We’ll have a drink.”

It’s a moment before the words take effect. Then Aramis smiles, raises his head, and pats Athos on the chest. “Rain check. I should _not_ have eaten ice cream on an upset stomach.”

“Oh, for god’s sake--”

Aramis giggles, then swings around to grab Athos in a warm hug. “Thanks for getting lunch with me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Athos promises, hugging back.

*

5:45am tomorrow comes, and Athos has a text waiting for him, from Porthos.

 _i did the shower cry thing_ , it reads, immediately followed by another message: _didnt actually puke tho_.

Athos tries to write back, but has no idea what to say. Instead he stares at his phone for half a minute before calling Porthos instead.

“Hey, Porthos,” he murmurs.

“Mornin’,” Porthos replies; his voice is garbled in a way that has nothing to do with the quality of the phone call.

“I’m guessing Aramis told you about his transfer.”

“Guessed right.”

“You sound awful.”

“Called just to compliment me?”

“I called to tell you to take a day,” Athos says, although to be honest this only occurs to me as the words pass his lips. But as soon as he hears himself, it makes perfect sense. Porthos had only been out those two days back in January when he had strep, and with less than two months of school left, there’s no shame at all in another. Still he expects Porthos to argue.

Porthos doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he sighs into the phone. “That sounds-- _fantastic_.”

“Go back to bed,” Athos encourages. “Sleep in, order a pizza, watch Netflix.”

“Call out with me.”

Athos winces. “I promised d’Artagnan I’d observe his US I today--”

Porthos huffs a laugh. “That’s all right. I didn’t really mean it. I mean, I did, but-- you know. Okay, lemme go call the hotline, it’s almost six. I’ll email you my plans in a few minutes, if you could print ‘em for the sub?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Lemme go. Bye, Ath.”

“Bye, Porthos,” Athos replies, and hangs up.

The mood at school is grim. At least d’Artagnan, from whom Athos was fully expecting tears, takes things very well, and sees immediately to reassuring Aramis-- that he’ll love his new building, that they’ll still get together all the time.

Athos says nothing about Porthos, in accordance with the text he received.

 _Told the others im actually sick_ , he’d sent, around 6:15, and although Athos is fairly sure that they aren’t fooled, he plays along.

And so the next day, Tuesday, is when their new normal begins. Debate team is over for the year anyway, having not progresses beyond regionals. (This happened two years ago and they continued to meet for fun.) Porthos does not attend origami club, though he does not seem to mind that d’Artagnan and Athos still do. And so they balance. Aramis and Porthos are friendly, hardly darting into closets to escape one another; still the difference blurs the air like heat off blacktop.

*

May happens, according to the calendar. Functionally, though, it doesn’t. What happens in its place is a slog somewhat akin to holding one’s breath underwater: it stretches interminably for the duration, but once it’s over it feels like an eyeblink.

The roller-coaster of depression plunges down again. The few weeks of respite that had allowed Athos to catch his breath end abruptly, and with no discernable reason; he merely wakes one day to the familiar fog of misery.

It’s a Thursday. He calls out. He makes it in for Friday, but ends up calling out the following Tuesday because fuck it.

It’s almost June, and nobody gives a shit anyway. Nobody even notices, really.

At least that’s what he assumes.

The heatwave hits a little later than usual this year, not until the first full week of June, but still it hits hard. On Monday morning the building is the coolest it will be all week, and still Athos is already dripping sweat. Literally, dripping.

D’Artagnan is too, when he comes in, pit-stained by eight o’clock in the morning again, though he’s finally gotten around to buying some short sleeved-shirts. It hardly matters; he’s sweated his pale pink polo through in any case. Athos fans himself with an answer key as d’Artagnan drags the computer chair to Athos’ side and plops down.

“How was the lake?” he asks, brightly.

“The lake?”

“The one you went swimming in?”

Athos only glares.

“Right. Jesus, it’s fucking hot in here. I think I’d better put an ice pack down my crotch if I ever want to reproduce. Hah! Look at that! You almost smiled!”

“Almost,” Athos allows.

D’Artagnan runs the back of his hand along his upper lip, leans back in his chair, and pulls an orange post-it from his shirt pocket.

“So,” he begins. “Um. You remember asking me, what made up my mind to visit California?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And do you remember-- a few months ago, you told me I should consider, like-- seeing a therapist?”

To this question, Athos doesn’t respond.

“So, I did. And I think it’s helping, at least a little. And I just wanted to say-- I know one of the scariest things when you think about starting therapy is, like, that they’ll just completely shut you down, and tell you to stop being a whiny little orphan, or else tell you you’re hopeless and give up on you in ten minutes. But, like, this guy-- Conrad-- he hasn’t done any of that, and, like-- well, here’s his name. If you want to look him up. I officially vouch for him.”

Athos stares straight ahead, too heavy for movement, as d’Artagnan slips a post-it note into his hand, then takes the opportunity to squeeze their sweaty fingers together, gently. “Just a thought,” he mumbles, then he’s gone.

The post-it crumples in Athos’ fist as he presses his knuckles to his forehead.

*

The yearbook is dedicated to Amber Williams. On the first page there is only her name, dates, and senior portrait; on the second is a whole collage of pictures of her. Athos finds Porthos and Aramis in one. They’re standing at her sides, smiling brightly; it’s from graduation, and Amber is in her white cap and gown, Porthos and Aramis in their black. 

His move away from them, though, back to Amber’s portrait. He never taught her, no, but now he thinks he remembers watching her debate at competitions he attended (though maybe that’s just guilt). It’s hard for him to process, is all.

It shouldn’t be. Death at a young age should not be hard for him to process at all-- and yet it still is, and he finds himself swept up in a tide of sympathy and disbelief that somebody with such a lovely smile-- no, that _somebody_ , that somebody _full stop_ \-- should die still short of their twentieth birthday. Should just _end_ , before really beginning.

And though he has never believed in the afterlife, Athos sends out a warm intention, in case Amber is somehow able to receive it.

Athos sniffs quietly, rubs his eyes, and turns the page. Why such an unsentimental person is still so fond of yearbooks, he doesn’t know, but he truly is. He has a shelf of them-- thirteen as a student, seventeen now as a teacher. Nearly forty years of life, and thirty of them can be found in hardcover format; he’s only missing ages zero to four, and his time at college.

He flips to the faculty pages. On the second page he finds his friends, Porthos and Aramis in their secret service get up, protecting Nancy DiLisi from d’Artagnan, whose picture looks misplaced from the seniors’ page.

A few pages over he finds himself. The good parts are his sweater, and the fact that he remembered to get a haircut before picture day this year. Still what stands out is the look in his eyes. The little black-and-white yearbook Athos looks exhausted, even moreso than the Athos that looks back at him from the mirror every day.

He turns the page.

By force of habit he finds he’s not looking for pictures of himself, but of Porthos and Aramis. Besides the dedication page, a few pictures of them are scattered throughout. There’s one on the debate team page, of course, as well as a picture from Halloween with them both decked out as pirates; the origami club is unofficial and has not garnered its own place, but still in the candids section there is an image of Aramis crouched in front of Porthos, helping him fold his paper. 

Then there’s one from winter semi. Porthos and Aramis are dancing, left hands joined, right hands on the other’s shoulders; _bachata_ , Athos thinks, recalling the conversation after Aramis offered to teach him.

_Bachata’s Dominican, ain’t it?_

_Yeah._

_You’re Chilean._

_So?_

_It’s-- not the same thing._

_You know that, and I know that, but the world expects certain things from Latinos…._

In the picture they are both grinning like madmen-- sweating like madmen too.

Nearby Athos is surprised to find a picture of the four of them. They’re in a row on the bleachers; Aramis has his arms around Porthos and d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan is tugging Athos himself in close. He can’t remember taking this picture. Obviously they’ve come out to support their school in some athletic event or another, but he has no specific memory of this-- this moment in which all four of them squished in together and smiled.

Porthos’ face is bright. He’s looking at the camera, not Aramis, but still they fit together, Aramis’ hair brushing Porthos’ chin, Porthos’ hand on Aramis’ waist. D’Artagnan, on Aramis’ other side, is grinning widely. It’s probably just a basic grin, but, knowing him as he does, Athos sees not only happiness but relief, and exhaustion, and the surprise that contentment brings after a long run of sadness. 

Athos is not looking at the camera. Instead is face is turned, regarding his three friends fondly; his hands are in his lap but d’Artagnan’s arm is tightly around his shoulder. 

Oh, d’Artagnan. Who completed them in a way that Athos hardly been able to understand. And here they were, breaking anyway. 

Athos keeps his yearbook at school only long enough for his students to sign it, as he knows they’ll want to; then he takes it home and stows it away on the shelf.

*

The day of graduation is hot and humid and feels, as always, like a slice of an alternate universe that collided with their own. Crammed into the faculty bathroom with three other teachers, Athos struggles to make his robes lay right. Between the hood and the gown and his trousers and shirt there’s just _too damn much fabric_ swimming around his body, and Don Bowden panting like a bulldog as he tries to get his cap to stay on his bald head isn’t helping.

“Quit showin’ off, LaFere,” Don huffs, as Athos inexpertly bobby-pins his cap in place. “That’ll all be gone by fifty.”

Athos smiles awkwardly, says nothing. Most of the time he feels old as fuck, but right now he looks like a kid playing dress up. They all do. Don’s cap won’t stay on and Joel is being visibly strangled by his hood and Bill has opted to wear shorts beneath his gown and looks oddly naked.

Athos feels an odd wash of fondness for them, as he heads to the auditorium.

The faculty, like the students, process in and sit according to height order-- the only order in which Aramis will ever end up near Athos. Measured scientifically, it’s probable that Karen Lopez should fit in between them. But whereas the students are lined up and scrutinized to within millimeters, the teachers are mostly left to their own devices. Athos finds Aramis, stands directly beside him as they all queue in the hallway. A glance to the back of the line shows Porthos and d’Artagnan just two spaces apart themselves; they both wave when Athos nods at them.

Aramis is pale in his black and blue robes. Absently he fiddles with the pins holding Athos’ cap in place, adjusting them to perfection, though his own cap is askew atop his mass of coffee bean curls. Athos smiles, but says nothing; he has nothing to say.

He watches Aramis throughout the ceremony, in sideways glances between rounds of applause. He’s not sure what he’s watching for. At least not until the valedictorian’s speech is over, and a gentle exhalation draws his attention once again.

There are tears in Aramis’ eyes. This startles Athos; tonight is the eighth graduation he’s attended with the man, and he has never before reacted like this. He’s much more the one to hoot and whistle obnoxiously. Athos himself is typically the one who has to excuse himself to the faculty bathroom and weep his way through fistful after fistful of toilet paper (and, occasionally, Porthos’ collar).

Maybe out of concern for Aramis, that doesn’t happen now. Instead he rests his hand on Aramis’ knee and remains with him in a tiny pocket of stillness, while up on stage the graduates throw their caps and the faculty and audience burst into applause.

The faculty head out into the hallway, swarmed immediately by the new graduates. Athos mills around, offering congratulations and agreeing to pictures; he quickly loses track of Aramis, and of Porthos and d’Artagnan as well.

After half an hour or so, he heads outside. The sun’s almost down, and the twilight air is damp and thick with insects; still it is fresher and calmer than the noisy staleness inside.

Suddenly Athos has energy for nothing but shucking his robes off and driving home.

*

The last day of school is as useless as it ever is. The students stay in their homerooms all day and Athos, with a homeroom of seniors, has just over a dozen kids actually attend. (Not that he expected any different.) He brings a pile of DVDs, turns on the Smart Board, and lets the kids at it; they put on _Pirates of the Caribbean_ but then ignore it in favor of rhapsodizing about summer or else weeping on each other’s shoulders, swearing never-ending friendship.

Thank god it’s noon dismissal.

Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan meet up at Athos’ and carpool to Tir Na Nog, where they push aside their collective gloom to toast the end of d’Artagnan’s first year. D’Artagnan regales them with his top five favorite teacher moments. Then, although he hasn’t in months now, he gets a little weepy, and thanks them both at length, though with no real articulation. For their friendship in general, Athos supposes. He calms down quickly in any case, blows his nose on a napkin, and goes off to order the next round.

He’s just set the new drinks down when a familiar voice joins the conversation. Aramis stands, a little farther away than necessary, and stares helplessly at the tablecloth.

“Can we talk?”

At his side, Athos feels Porthos stiffen; he gestures to the empty seat besides d’Artagnan. 

Aramis slips into it. He gives d’Artagnan a smile when the boys pats his back affectionately-- but the smile fades fast. “Happy last day,” he mumbles, and everybody echoes him quietly.

“So, my classroom’s all packed. Treville said to leave the boxes, and the district will take care of moving them before September. I give it pretty even odds that I ever see any of my shit again.”

Athos smiles, and d’Artagnan chuckles quietly.

Aramis sighs.

“Listen, I-- I won’t crash your party. It just felt wrong, not to see you at all on the last day. And I wanted to say-- Porthos, I wanted to tell you-- just--

“I miss you,” Aramis says, without embellishment.

Athos takes a good, long look at him and realizes just how evident this is on his face. His skin is ashen and his beard is untrimmed. He looks ten years older than he did six months ago, so bright and alive that December night-- that January morning-- when he kissed Porthos smack on the lips beneath a snowstorm of rainbow confetti.

“I caused this. I know that. _Please_ don’t think I don’t know that. But I-- Porthos, I-- I haven’t slept much since it happened. I’ve thrown up breakfast on the side of route 80, like, at least once a week.” His laugh sounds like a violin that’s been gathering dust for half a century. “I’m a mess. A fucking mess. And-- I don’t know if I have the right, to ask this of you. But I’ve got to, honestly, I’ve just-- got to. So.”

Aramis takes a deep breath.

“Can we try, at least? To work something out?”

Porthos stares at his placemat. “Work what out?”

“I dunno. I just said _try_. Try to be friends again, I guess.”

“Not lovers?”

“I thought that was pretty well decided,” Aramis replies, quietly.

“You make it sound like you weren’t the one who decided it.”

Aramis scowls. “Okay, so shoot me-- I care! About sex. The sex thing. I can’t say I don’t. Can we please-- Jesus-- Athos, Charlie, I love you both, but-- can we please go talk? You and me?”

Porthos grunts. Athos takes this as an affirmative response and slides out of the booth to let Porthos exit; there’s a moment in which he thinks he’s understood wrong, but then Porthos slides out too and he and Aramis leave together. Athos sits back down.

D’Artagnan regards him for a minute; then he picks up a menu and spins it thoughtfully on one metal corner. “When I was a kid,” he begins, “I used to make money under the table translating menus in touristy areas into French.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to say it was a full-time gig, but I probably did six or seven. That was before google translate, of course.”

“Did you get a lot of French tourists in your area?”

“No,” d’Artagnan admits, and laughs. “But I was a cute kid.”

The server comes back, and d’Artagnan orders another plate of Irish nachos, a plate of mozzarella sticks, and a pitcher of beer. Once that’s done, he puts his head in his hands, looking suddenly tired.

“Athos?”

“Mm?”

“Can you just-- can you tell me, please-- that the second year is easier? By at least a little?”

“The second year is easier,” Athos promises, “by more than just a little.”

“If I can sleep more than five hours a night, I’ll be happy.”

“I think you can reasonably expect that.”

“Porthos asked me to do the debate team with him.” He glances up, looking a little hesitant, and Athos pictures him asking Porthos, _you’re sure Athos wouldn’t rather, right?_

“Good,” Athos says, at once. “Represent for the humanities teachers. We’ve more of a place on debate teams anyway.”

“Porthos says logic is the foundation of all academic subjects.”

“Tell Porthos I’m telling the art teacher on him,” Athos replies.

D’Artagnan’s smile is wide and easy and a little bit sleepy. He crosses his arms and rests his chin against them, gazing up at Athos with bright brown eyes, looking just like-- well-- a puppy.

“I’m gonna miss observing you next year.”

“Oh? You aren’t going to miss me observing you?”

“No, not really. It was helpful as hell, but _fucking_ intimidating. Athos-- I know the captain sort of forced you into mentoring me. But I’m really, really glad you said yes.”

“So am I,” Athos replies.

D’Artagnan sits back up, shakes himself a little. “Constance interviewed with our district.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah. That would be crazy, wouldn’t it? She hasn’t heard anything yet, but-- man.”

The food-- the second round of food, to be precise-- arrives, and they dig into it. Athos can’t say he’s not distracted by the enormity of the conversation happening out in the parking lot. But d’Artagnan keeps up a stream of chatter and this, along with the nachos and cheese sticks, is enough to keep him from worrying _too_ much.

Still he jumps a little when his phone buzzes. It’s a message from Porthos, to their four-way group text.

 _So kissing is nice_ , it reads. 

Aramis just sends a lip print emoji. 

 _Im a disaster right now_ , Porthos adds. _come out to the van_. 

Aramis sends a crying face emoji.

D’Artagnan looks up from his own phone, having seen the same messages. “That’s good, right?” he prompts, grinning.

They get the server’s attention and ask for the bill; when it comes, d’Artagnan slips his card into the folder and hands it back before Athos can stop him.

“You didn’t let me pay you for mentoring,” he mumbles, coloring a little. “Let me get today, at least.”

On another day Athos might feel more inclined to argue. Now, though, he wants to do exactly what d’Artagnan wants to do, which is get outside as quickly as possible. Thus, as soon as d’Artagnan has signed the check, they bolt. Aramis’ minivan stands out, as always, and they jog towards it and knock urgently on the sliding door.

It opens, revealing Porthos and Aramis side-by-side in the middle row. Smeared tears are drying all over Porthos’ cheeks, but he isn’t crying anymore.

Athos scans him top to bottom and proclaims, “more composed than I anticipated.”

Porthos snorts, and holds his hand up for Athos to observe, and all right, maybe he’s not entirely composed, because he’s shaking like a leaf. Aramis snatches his hand and kisses the palm. Then, seeming to remember the presence of the others, he colors. “Sorry. I guess it’ll take some time for you to get used to--”

“Thirty seconds,” Athos replies, “which have passed.”

“I’m really happy for you guys,” d’Artagnan beams, looking perhaps a bit shy but not at all awkward. “I mean, I assume-- you’re good?”

“We needa talk. A lot,” Porthos adds, and Aramis puts his head on Porthos’ chest and breathes out, a little harshly. “But we’re good. Yeah. We’re good.”

Aramis lifts his head, pecks a kiss on Porthos’ lips. “We’re very good, in fact.”

“And a little tired.”

“And more than a little tired,” Aramis agrees. He buries his face in Porthos’ chest again, then digs in his pocket for his keys and holds them out blindly. “S’mebody else drive, please?”

Athos groans; his utter joy at this development has not erased his utter hatred for driving Aramis’ minivan. But d’Artagnan primly snatches the keys. 

“Did you guys pay?” Porthos wonders, almost absently, as d’Artagnan pulls away.

“No,” Athos calls back, from the passenger seat. “We dined and dashed. I hope you weren’t planning to go back to Tir Na Nog again.”

“They’ll forget by September,” Porthos replies, voice muffled-- when Athos glances over his shoulder he realizes it’s muffled by Aramis’ hair.

They stay this way until they get to the highway. Then Athos hears a quiet stir.

“Sit up,” Porthos tells Aramis, quietly. “I know you don’t wanna let go but you’re gonna get carsick as it is, ridin’ in back. It’s all right. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

There’s another quiet shuffle. “’kay,” Aramis replies, quietly. “Where’re we going, anyway?”

D’Artagnan, behind the wheel, bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s a really good question!”

“Well, where are you driving to?” Athos poses, reasonably.

“Um, your house? It’s sort of the instinct, when we’re all in the car together, isn’t it?”

Athos almost laughs. He realizes now that he’s a little tipsy to be driving anyway, and so the thought of heading to his house is actually quite a pleasant one; nevertheless he’s not sure that sentiment will be shared.

“We have on our hands,” he reminds d’Artagnan, “a newly reunited pair of STEM teachers. It’s possible they may want some time to themselves.” Athos looks back in time to see Porthos and Aramis glance at each other and smile.

“Not on your life,” Porthos says. “The last day is always ours. Ours as in all of us,” he adds, and d’Artagnan grins helplessly.

Then Aramis moans.

“Please don’t have sex while I’m within earshot,” Athos requests.

“Christ, you really are a virgin, aren’t you? That wasn’t a sex moan, my friend, that was an I-really-hope-I-don’t-- ugh-- don’t-puke moan.”

“We’re close,” d’Artagnan assures him, pulling off the highway. And indeed, less than two minutes later, they are entering the streets of Athos’ development, coming to a smooth stop in front of his house.

D’Artagnan kills the engine, but nobody moves quite yet. Athos closes his eyes and breathes in what might, for all he knows, be the last time the four of them sit silently in Aramis’ minivan together.

He does not open his eyes until Porthos speaks, a few minutes later.

“How you feelin’?” he asks quietly.

“Less nauseous. Just as in love. Maybe more in love.” Athos looks back to see Aramis crane up and peck a kiss on Porthos’ lips; Porthos deepens it but Aramis pushes him away and grunts, “less nauseous, not _not_ nauseous.”

Porthos bursts out laughing. “So I don’t know, so you’ll have to tell me-- is that supposed to be alluring or something?”

“Everything I do is alluring. Can’t believe it’ll all be lost on you.”

“Ain’t lost on me,” Porthos soothes. “Just because it doesn’t turn me on don’t mean it’s lost on me.” He presses a kiss to Aramis’ temple. “Like-- I love that stupid hat you wear. Gives you hat hair. I love the way you pop your knees, _constantly_. An’ how you only have white towels so you can bleach the shit out of ‘em, because you love the smell of bleach.”

“I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out…”

Porthos frowns. “No I don’t.”

Now Aramis laughs. “I love how you never get any pop culture references, ever.”

“Oh,” Porthos says, suddenly. “Car’s still at Nog.”

This dose of pragmatism breaks the spell and they tumble from the minivan, into the afternoon heat then into the air-conditioned bliss of Athos’ living room. Aramis and Porthos take over the sofa. Athos sits in his armchair, and watches as d’Artagnan walks to an empty span of floor, takes a deep breath, then lies down face first.

“Oh my god!” he moans. “I fucking _did it_!”

Then, quite calmly, he rolls onto his side and grins up at them all, sleepily.

“Any celebration plans?” Porthos prompts. “Possibly involvin’ certain redheaded teacher-to-be?”

“Oh! No, god, don’t I wish. No, but I did-- um, I went to the bakery yesterday and bought a tiramisu-- not a slice, I mean, like a whole tiramisu-- and I’m gonna eat the whole thing.” He shrugs the shoulder not pressed to the hardwood, and grins.

“Learned from the best!” Porthos roars back. “Last day of my first year I ate a pizza an’ a half-- an’ the other half for breakfast!”

“I literally just got reflux at the thought of that,” Aramis sighs, and kisses Porthos’ nose. “Me, I just got drunk that day.”

“An’ drunk-dialed me.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah,” Porthos affirms, laughing again. “You honestly don’t remember?”

“No. What did I say?”

“No idea. You were drunk an’ I just wanted to eat my pizza in peace. Mm. Oh. Can we get pizza tonight?”

“Of course,” Aramis agrees. “The two of us, or the four of us, or--?” He looks down at Athos, who flounders a little at the abrupt inclusion.

“You’re always welcome to stay the night,” he replies. “Though I’d understand the desire for a bit of privacy. New love, and all that-- or really rather overdue love.”

“What do you say, babe?” Aramis hums. “Are we snuggling here or at my place, or your-- _hey_.”

His voice is suddenly low and gentle, and Athos glances up to see a new tear trickling down Porthos’ cheek.

“Baby, you’re not, like--” Aramis takes Porthos’ hands. “Did I do something? This isn’t because of how fabulous I am, is it, because I’m not really that fabulous--”

He’s teasing, but there’s also something like fear in his eyes.

But Porthos snorts. “Come down off your pedestal. I just _missed_ you, you bastard.” He sucks in a breath, scrubs at his eyes. “I missed all four of us, together. Y’know?”

D’Artagnan moves so fast that Athos doesn’t even realize what’s happening before the boy is already half in Porthos’ lap, arms around Porthos’ shoulders. Porthos bursts out in soggy laughter.

“Ath?” he prompts. Then d’Artagnan and Aramis look up too.

There’s a small slot of space left next to Aramis; Athos gets up, goes to the couch, and fits into it wordlessly. He presses himself along Aramis’ side. Slowly he lets his body go slack, until he is laying against his friend; then he closes his eyes.

They all stay like this, for a long moment.

It’s Athos who gets up first, goes into the kitchen for no real reason and stands staring out the window. He feels shaky and oddly overheated. In his heart there’s a profound urge to dash back to the living room and hurl himself back into the midst of his friends’ embrace, but in his gut there’s a need not to be _touched_.

Porthos walks the line perfectly, as always. He enters quietly, lays his hand on the cool granite of the countertop, a few inches from Athos’.

“I hope I don’t have to say this,” Porthos murmurs, voice low and still a little gruff. “But me bein’ with Aramis doesn’t change _anything_ with you an’ me. I’m here for you. An’ you’re there for me, an’ I’m gonna take you up on it, often.”

Athos nods. He believes Porthos, although he knows that he isn’t entirely right; perhaps the spirit of their relationship won’t change, but he hardly thinks they’ll spend much time cuddling in bed together now that Porthos has an actual boyfriend.

This doesn’t hurt quite as much as expected, though it still hurts a little.

“I’m okay,” Athos murmurs. For the first time it occurs to him that his rather abrupt exit may have made him appear otherwise. And _is_ he otherwise-- both okay and not okay, in equal measure.

“I know. You’re jus’ a quiet man who’s had a loud ten months, an’ your brain’s a little fried. It’s okay. How about we all head out an’ give you some space-- an’ we’ll get lunch or dinner, Monday or Tuesday. Yeah?”

Athos nods again, and moves his hand to rest atop Porthos’; out of the corner of his eye he sees Porthos observe him carefully a moment before pulling him into a loose embrace.

Then Porthos lets go, and returns to the living room.

“’m pooped,” Athos hears him say. He goes back in himself, just in time to see Porthos sitting on the couch and Aramis plopping at once into his lap.

“Can I take you home?” Aramis murmurs, softly. “And _not_ have sex with you but _definitely_ kiss you more?”

Porthos smirks. “Mm-hm.”

“And if you keep the rest of your clothes on, will you just let me-- take off your bowtie?”

“Sure?”

“With my teeth?”

Porthos blushes, deeply.

“As happy as I am for you,” Athos drawls, “I do not require algorithmic detail.”

Aramis tumbles to his feet, goes to Athos’ side, and smacks a kiss to his cheek. “We’ll get out of your hair. See you next week sometime?”

Athos nods and, feeling very French, kisses Aramis’ cheeks in return.

Porthos comes over and hugs him again, then he and Aramis both hug d’Artagnan as well. Then, with a final smile, hands locked together, they leave.

Athos takes a deep breath, then another, then steps backwards towards the couch and lets himself fall gracelessly down to it.

D’Artagnan sits beside him. At first all he does is throw an arm around Athos’ neck, but within thirty seconds he’s also laid his head on Athos’ shoulder.

“I’m planting a garden in your backyard,” he announces. “By the way.”

Whatever Athos was expecting to hear, it wasn’t this.

“All right,” he murmurs, then can’t help but smile. “I’ve never had a garden.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it. Just keep me company. I just thought it’d be polite to give a heads up,” d’Artagnan adds, and cuddles closer into Athos. After a full minute of trying to resist, Athos lets his head drop down to rest on d’Artagnan’s.

He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he opens them. D’Artagnan is shifting beneath him, stretching, cracking his ankles; eventually he pushes to his feet.

“I’m gonna head home. I’ll see you soon, mm?”

“See you soon, d’Artagnan,” Athos confirms, smiling back, and d’Artagnan waves at him, bounces once on his feet, and leaves.

And the house goes silent.

Athos sprawls out on the area rug, feeling calm and lonely and oddly adrift at the thought of no commitments, no structure, for two months. For _two months_.

He is permitted to drift approximately ten minutes before his phone buzzes. It’s d’Artagnan.

 _how do you feel about carrots?_ the message reads, promptly followed by:

_peas?_

Athos thinks a moment before replying, _Yes; no;_ _basil?_ , to which d’Artagnan sends a long stream of smiley faces.

_its the perfect time for basil!_

_Is it a good time for strawberries?_ Athos asks, warming up to this venture.

 _nope_ , d’Artagnan replies, with a sad face. _too late for strawberries. next year!_

_And when do we begin?_

The speech bubble flickers its little grey ellipse, and then the message arrives:

_im free tomorrow? if you are?_

Athos feels himself smile.

*

The next day Athos wakes without an alarm, sometime around six thirty.

It’s summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _encule mardi_ = fuck Tuesday  
>  _première période étaient morceaux de merde aujourd'hui_ = first period were little shitheads today  
>  _la cafétéria sent les oignons et les couilles d'un kangourou mort_ = the cafeteria smells like onions and a dead kangaroo's balls
> 
> Well, all, here's the end of it! Thank you so much for all your kind feedback, and I hope you enjoyed the final chapter! There _is_ a sequel in the works for this. It isn’t terribly far along, and I will be away/without a computer for most of July, but I hope to have it up before the summer ends. I feel like there’s a lot more to be said about Athos’ struggle with depression, as well as d’Artagnan’s backstory (and possibly his relationship with Constance??) Porthos and Aramis are giving me some trouble, though. Fortysomething Porthos and Aramis were suucchh lovely queerplatonic soulmates in _Honest Songs_ that I really wanted my next modern fic to feature them as a romantic couple. And this one did! But, at least with the characters as they feel to me here, I’m not sure it can last. Dunno. In any case. Stay tuned.
> 
> And please, please, please make sure to check out Azile_Teacup's Porthos artwork from this universe!!! It is quite simply beyond adorable :D


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